Alex Beecroft's Blog, page 49

A great birthday was had by me.

Thank you so much to everyone who sent me birthday wishes yesterday.  I've never felt so loved in my life!  I was positively overwhelmed.  My sister invited me round for lunch and bought me perfume, and my husband brought home Thai food for dinner and gave me a necklace that looks like a stylish pendant but is actually a stick-drive.  I shall put all my stories on it and wear my backup around my neck

The tattoo was my main present, but I was also lucky enough to get Lush bath stuff from one daughter, and a glasses stand and a tea-infuser shaped like a teapot from the other.  They even wrapped them up in the middle of the night and sneaked them down to my desk in the morning.  (Until which point I had no idea they had remembered at all.)

Thank you so much to Wulfila for the lovely notebook, which is just the right size for my bag, so I will be able to carry it around and write down ideas when they come to me, instead of losing them.  Thank you to Clare London, Canadian Jay and lovely anon for the virtual gifts, about which I am very chuffed, and yes it was one of my best birthdays ever.  Considering I've had so many of them, that's saying something

Wildfire, Chapter 2 part 1

Chapter Two.

The sun came up on Sessrumnir, and when the servants had thrown open the glistening doors it glanced through all the rooms and glittered in Freyja's mirror. She sat before her glass admiring her beautiful face, rouging her lips with a paste of blood and honey. The yellow light shocked glints of red and gold from her auburn hair, and stroked a gentle hand along the twisted amber and gold of the Brisingamen like a lover departing in the morning.

An elvish maidservant came hurrying in silently bearing scented water in a golden dish. The steam rose like a grey blossom as she walked between the silvered pillars and filled the air with the fragrance of forest flowers. Her dark green oblate eyes were wide with anticipation,her face unreadable. As Freyja washed her red-stained fingers she said;

"My Lady, Loki is at the door."

"Loki!" Freyja exclaimed, putting a hand to her necklace; it was still there. "What can that thief want?"

Everyone had known, every god had known, that you couldn't get into Freyja's house unless she opened the doors to you. Everyone had known it, until he had found a secret way through all the locked doors; until he had come silently into her bedchamber while she slept and taken the Price of Three Nights to shame her before the gods.

She shivered. He could have killed her; would have if he'd had the nerve. He could have taken a knife and driven it through her throat while she was sleeping. No-one would have known who had done it…He had the eyes of a secret murderer.

"At least this time he has come to the door." she said, "Let him come in then."

The elfen ran to the door lightly. She anticipated some entertainment in this meeting, whatever happened. Something to talk over thoroughly while the gods were asleep. Nevertheless she said nothing to Loki as she led him into the inner hall. There was nothing she could say that could not be misinterpreted.

"I thought you were on Midgard," Freyja said icily, without getting up to greet her guest. She looked with badly concealed envy at his golden hair.

"I had said so." he replied smugly, "But my words are not always wholly accurate."

"It's true you are a liar." Freyja said. She waved a graceful hand to the maid, who ran off silently on light feet.

"Only occasionally." said Loki, "I say what I want, it's up to you to decide the truth."

"Oh yes, I will keep forgetting," Freyja sneered, "You are our benefactor, it's good for us to be constantly betrayed."

"I think it is."

"You think too much."

When the maid returned with glasses and a pitcher of wine she was careful to stand outside the locked gaze. She poured the wine as if she felt no danger; deft as a doe kicking her heels in the teeth of wolves. The smell of the wine was sweet, and the sound of its pouring like that of rivers. Loki Banefire shivered at it.

He turned his burnt eyes to the elfen, but she made no sign to show she felt the threat. Only Freyja, sister to the lord of elves, knew how afraid she was by her calm.

"Cloudshadow," she said, "You may go."

The elfen filled the glasses to the brims, carefully, slowly as the coming of spring. Then, favouring both the gods with a closed and secret glance, she departed. She went straight to the door, where she stood when her mistress was asleep or away, the door that led into the forest. The shade of the trees offered many good places to hide, and she wanted to be there, but she went no further than the threshold. Reluctantly, after gazing only a little while, she turned and padded back secret as the undine in the brook. She was too faithful to leave her Lady alone with Wildfire.

"So," said Freyja, "What do you want?"

She leaned forward and the sun outlined the shape of her breasts beneath her silken dress. It gleamed along her red lips.

Loki smiled, "There's a young man…" he said.

Freyja reddened with anger. "Tie him up and take him at knife point." she said, "That's your usual method isn't it?"

"But you misunderstand me!" said Loki, laughing, "This is different."

"Oh yes?" Freyja sneered, "It always is." She combed her fingers through her shining hair, leaving it furrowed like a field of rich earth.

"I don't want him for me!" Loki exclaimed with a look of innocence, "I want him to fall in love with a young woman."

Freyja frowned, "Now I know you're up to something," she said, "Why should you want anything so good to happen?"

"It's a particular couple," said Loki, "And they haven't met. Also the boy is a follower of the new god."

"Oh that's it is it!" said Freyja, "You want their children to grow up despising us, so that we will all be as dishonoured as you."

"If I wanted that," Loki said, holding on to his glass with both hands, as if afraid it would be taken from him, "I should merely make public everything I know."

"And leave yourself defenceless?"

"When I wish to die I may do it."

"I will take that as a denial," Freyja said, smiling knowingly.

"As you like."

"So what do you want with the foreign god?" Freyja asked,

"Aren't you wasting your talents? That one will never last…I hear his followers are forbidden to have children, and that they hate women. There won't be too many husbands permitted to follow that one."

Loki laughed, but he huddled closer in his chair. "True," he said, "And he is not too fond of thieves and deceivers, which makes him unpopular with Woden."

"And also with you." she pointed out.

"I didn't think that needed stating." He put the empty glass down quickly, nervously, as if he might have forgotten and left with it still in his hand.

"There are many things you don't think it necessary to state about yourself," said Freyja bitterly, giving the fire an angry stir with her weaving sword; "You didn't think it needed stating that it was you who stole my necklace."

"But it didn't need stating," he protested as if in anger, "Whenever anything at all goes wrong up here Heimdallr and Balder blame me. Why even yesterday Heimdallr accused me of spoiling his aim at the hunt."

"Did you?"

"Surtur's flames, I most certainly did. He was aiming at me."

"There," she said, smiling, it was a just accusation. Would it be too much to ask why you want this particular couple to fall for each other? Their progeny might hurry the Ragnarok perhaps?"

"Would you believe my answer?" pointed out the Father of Lies with the air of a philosopher, cutting to the heart of the problem. "No." Freyja said scornfully.

"Well then," said the Sly god with a shrug, "Why should you wish to hear more of my lies?"

The goddess of love gave the fire another brutal stab, "So why should I help?" she said.

The fire flamed high and the twisted gold at her throat was outlined in a light like blood. From the high smokehole in the silver ceiling bars of light descended. The gray fragrance still drifted in them, like fleets of longships tossing on a bright tide.

"The brooch and bracelet of Hymir the fisherman's daughter," said the Thief of Heaven indifferently. He had seen her gazing jealously at them while she sat, thinking herself unobserved, in hawk form on the High One's seat of watching.

"You could get them for me?" she asked with a little catch in her voice that made him smile. She drew her hair over her eyes like a veil, fancying that he could not see through it to what she thought.

"My Lady!" Loki protested, "Haven't you learned yet that I can easily take what I want?"

Freyja clenched her fists, but she asked, "Tell me, where does she keep them?"

"Ah," said Loki with the air of one making a confidence, "I would be a fool to tell you that with an elfen looking on from the shadows ready to fly there in an instant and steal them for you herself."

"What!" Freyja shouted, jumping up angrily with her hair wild, holding her weaving baton as a wolfskin clad berserker goes into battle with drawn sword, screaming. "Cloudshadow! Spying on me! Come out here, girl!"

Cloudshadow stepped out of the shade of a pillar with open,innocent eyes, unashamed.

"My Lady?" she said, "How have I offended you?"

"How have you offended?" Freyja repeated in astonishment. "You slink in the shadows of my hall like a thief waiting for weakness; you watch my moves, rob me of my words…And I was gentle to you, I trusted you! Who has sent you to spy on me? Tell me his name and I will give you leave to go freely from my house, and take your treacherous service to whomever you will. But, if you choose not to tell me, Freyr, my brother, your Lord, will set you among the Dark elves, to be their slave forever."

"Do not judge me so swiftly, Lady." said Cloudshadow spreading her hands and curtseying so deeply that her bronze girdle-tips skittered on the ground with a metallic ring. "I was concerned for your safety. I thought you would not like to be alone with the Father of Monsters. He is a dangerous god."

She rolled a strand of her raven hair backwards and forwards between her fingers, gazing at it in rapt concentration, in order to avoid the amused stare of Loki Banefire. "Also," she said, "What he said, was so. I would have gone, for you, to get the jewels you spoke of, before he even thought of setting out. Then you would have been freed of any debt-bond to him."

"Well, my girl," Freyja got on her high horse, "It so happens that I don't want those jewels." She stared at her guest: "I would never be able to wear them without being called a thief…"

"They called you worse things for the Brisingamen," Loki interrupted.

"I don't care for your bribe," Freyja replied, with cold anger.

Loki moved, his face caught the light of a leaping flame and seemed suddenly sharp and cruel, but he spoke softly. "Leave the girl be," he said, "She meant no harm to you." And he smiled his smug, meaningful smile.

"Oh, so that's how it is." Murmured Freyja to herself. "Very well," she said, "Cloudshadow you may go. You may leave my house and go. Go back to Alfheim, girl, you're not wanted here."

She poured out more wine, watching it fill into the delicate claws of the glass, feeling them go cold against her fingers, noticing how the blue glass became aquamarine with the colour of the liquid. When she looked up, holding out the full glass, she was quite calm again.

Once Loki sat over his glass like a beggar boy over a bowl of soup she picked up her own and refilled it without half so much care.

"What wouldn't you do…" she said in mocking tones, "To persuade me to do this thing for you?" She caught his rapid nervous look to the door through which the elfen had gone and she smiled to herself.

"You mustn't think…" said he, looking at her with his coal-black eyes blacker still from worry, "That I had anything to do with her eavesdropping."

"Why should I not?"

"I wouldn't want her to suffer your anger. Besides, it isn't true."

"You say it isn't true?" Freyja set her empty claw-beaker down on its side on the floor,"You, the Father of Lies, say it isn't true?"

"Who should know, better than a liar, the difference between truth and falsehood?" Loki said, hanging his head so that she could not see his face. Within the hanging circlet of his hair his shadow face looked up at him with satisfaction and a slight smile. A smile which broadened, just a little, when she said, "It's nothing to me," in obvious disbelief.

"What would you not do for this favour?" she insisted. Loki seemed to think about that, and his face became blank and empty, like that of a dead man. "I wouldn't live in Giantland again, under the hand of my father, or of Thrivaldi King…" he began, in emotionless tones, but then he laughed and looked up frankly; "And I wouldn't go through the pains of childbirth again. Oh! not for anything!"

"Childbirth!" Freyja snorted derisively. She gathered up her skirts and walked to where, on a table carved with snaking flowers was a bowl of copper, overlaid with gold, which shone with a dark lustre. She brought it back and set it on the floor between them. It was full of hazelnuts. Taking a handful, she sat down again. "What do you know about childbirth?" she said, "Father of monsters."

"They may be monsters." Loki protested reasonably, "But they're still my children. Didn't I carry them long enough, or scream loud enough when Fenris blooded his teeth eating his way out of me?"

"It's your own fault." Freyja noticed how the sun had changed its angle through the rafters and now gilded a dead bird far up upon the beams. She didn't like this talk. It should not have been possible that action of his; that a man could bear life of whatever kind. It was a slap in the face for her, that he should so twist the laws of her realm. What was more worrying was that she doubted if any of the other gods, even Odin Vakr King of the gods, could have done as much. "You should not have eaten that evil woman's heart."

"Oh yes," Loki laughed bitterly, turning the bowl of hazelnuts with his foot, "So everyone says, now. But then it was a different story. Oh yes, when they were all there, in the sanctity of the Hall, stabbing the woman with spears, flinging her in the fire-pit till the air stank of charred meat, sawing her into bleeding pieces and scattering them about the floor, wringing their hands and crying 'Wyrd save us, the woman won't die!' then they weren't so chary of asking my help.

"Three times they slaughtered her, each time more inventive; Balder the Beautiful had the idea of impaling her on an arch of spears above the firepit and they roasted her until only her heart was left. You weren't there, were you?  Or you'd remember how they capered when that was done and Angrbotha the witch-wife was reduced to so much meat, and Freyr was rid of a mother-in-law. How they laughed! 'That'll teach the old witch to come looking for her daughter here,' they said.

"But then.… You should have seen their faces!" He put on a mask of horror so profound that his listener, despite herself, giggled nervously like a child at a telling.

"The heart," Loki said slowly, "Began to beat. There in the embers, thud, thud, thud.  Blood pumped from it. 'Wyrd preserve us,' cried the Einherjar, whose combined might could not kill her, 'Nothing in the nine worlds will destroy the bitch! Nothing!' 

"Well, all eyes turned to me. 'Loki,' says Odin, kindly and sweetly, 'You have a reputation for answering impossible challenges. So, you get rid of her.'

"Then they all left, and I was sitting there, looking at this beating heart and feeling sick with the smell of blood. So I cut it up into little pieces, and I put salt on it, and I ate it before it could join itself together again. What I went through for the good of Asgard!

"'Loki get rid of her,' they said. Now they say 'You shouldn't have done it.' How am I to follow the changing whims in the hearts of you Vanir?"

"Alright," Freyja laughed, "I'll admit the possibility that there might be another side to the story.

"Poor woman." said Loki in a maudlin tone, "She shouldn't have been so devoted a mother or she'd still be alive. Left to myself I would have made that a different ending."

He nudged the bowl with his foot and it went over the edge of the hearth and into the firepit. The nuts spilled out and went up in flames but the bowl he retrieved, soot blackened and hot, from among the embers. At the bottom, flame-scarred, the red enamelled escutcheon showed a boars head with a golden crest. Gullenbursti, a gift he had given to Freyr, unthanked.

"Apart from that," he said, "I wouldn't live three months shut in a chest for it with nothing but the smell of apples to soothe my hunger."

Freyja laughed again, "Your dealings with giants have not been very fortunate have they?"

"I no longer think about them," said he, but his eyes were full of long nurtured grudges.

Freyja ignored it. "But you'd do anything else?"

"It depends," said he, "On what you ask."

"Would you sleep with me?"

She watched his face intently when she said that, but it hardly changed, there may have been some surprise, but not much. She was disappointed. This was her ground and she had not expected him to fight well on it.

Loki laughed. "I've been a whore for less," he said. "But do you really think it would make any difference?"

"I think you would find that it did," said Freyja, "You underestimate me."

Loki stared at her, with a smile of self-satisfied contempt. "I am not Odin," he said, "Or Thor, or Heimdallr, or any of those other contemptible weaklings you have tied at your girdle. They are innocents, I am not.

"Odin!" Freyja forced a laugh, "Innocent?"

"He believed that you cared for him," Loki said, "Which was more than innocent, it was stupid.  I on the other hand know well that you loathe me, and I have used women's power myself. I think that you would find that I could overmatch you if I put my mind to it. So, out of kindness I will give you some good advice: Don't play with fire, you will get burnt."

"You're not short on boasting," said Freyja, and she returned the fire-god's contempt threefold, "Anyone would think from listening to you that you were the goddess of love here."

"Love is a game of deception," said Loki, "And I am a master of such games; am I not the Arch-fiend himself?"

"That's a big name you're taking to yourself," said Freyja scornfully.

"I was given it on Midgard," he said impatiently. "Will you give me my answer?"

"You still expect me to say yes, after such a very civil request?" Freyja laughed, "You are a fool. You can leave my house now."

She got up, gathering her skirts about her as she prepared to make her way in quiet dignity to her sleeping quarters.

"Freyja," Loki spoke softly, "Do you still expect to be able to say no to me, now that you know how very easy it has been for me to find out all about you?"

"What do you mean?" Freyja turned sharply to see Loki smiling.

"Thor is a kindly and stupid sort," said Loki, "But he can become quite dangerous when he's jealous. And Odin is not renowned for his tolerance, or his mercy. That's not mentioning the reaction of the outraged wives. Or perhaps…" He paused for emphasis and to watch her false outrage become genuine, "Perhaps…" he went on, quietly so that the servants could not hear, but with a growing look of spiteful joy, "Perhaps I should tell the inventive Balder what you and your beloved brother and father get up to within the family. I told you what he did with the witch, didn't I? Shall I go on?"

"You filthy bastard!" Freyja screamed at him. She took up one of the spears that leaned against the wall. "Get out of my house and take your spying bitch with you."

"You only had to say yes," Loki backed off carefully, "And you would never even have known that I knew."

"Alright! Alright!" Freyja pulled herself together, "You get your way. I'll come to Hlithskjalf with you to see these humans; I'll send them dreams, but you just keep your mouth shut or Freyr will cut your tongue out, and the Vanir, my kinsfolk, will flay your precious Hoenir and send you curses written on his skin."

His face didn't change, but she felt him flinch. She laughed then in a triumph of her own, "You say you're indifferent to my power." she said, "But who was it made that little dent in your hard heart?"

"I don't thank you for that," said Loki, "He betrayed me too; he went away. You can kill him now for all I care. I'll take my elvish spy from your household, but be at the Hlithskjalf one hour after noon, or I may indulge my tendency to gossip."

"Very well." Freyja turned her back on him and when she heard the hinges of the door creak she spun and hurled the spear. He was not even surprised.  He ducked quickly out of the way and the heavy weapon slammed the door shut behind him with its head buried deeply and its shaft humming angrily as a hornet.

Tattoo. The 2nd stage has landed.

So, yesterday I hit my target weight on my diet, which means that I now have to figure out how to eat in order to neither lose nor gain any weight.  That will be interesting.  I may stay on the diet but start exercising, in an attempt to replace fat with (heavier) muscle.

In a total coincidence, but a nice one as it makes this a reward for achievement, yesterday was also the day when I got my long-planned vine-scroll tattoo done.  This was a much bigger job than the cross and took two solid hours of work.  (By which I mean the tattoo artist worked solidly for two hours, while I read "On Stranger Tides.")

Again, it was not terribly painful – at times I was so absorbed in the book that I forgot it was happening at all.  The last half an hour, where he was going over lines he'd already made in order to widen them and do a bit of shading, did begin to shade into "I wonder how much longer I'm going to be able to stand this without needing to ask him to stop" territory, though.  It had got to the stage where the skin already felt badly sunburnt, so the hot scratchy feeling of the needles was magnified by everything already being inflamed and oversensitive.

I did ask him why I – with my low pain threshold – was finding this easy, while people I know with much higher ones have found it terrible, and he said, darkly, that "there are a lot of butchers out there."  Which I take to mean that a lot of it is down to the skill of the tattoo artist rather than my innate toughness.

This was a different artist this time – Barry himself, the boss of the place.  I was very impressed by the way he took the line drawing he'd made and improved on it with a bit of freehand shading.  He seemed surprised that I didn't want any more doing with it.  He said "I could do so much with this!  Fill it in with colour or greywork to make it look like a piece of jewellery."  But I don't know that I want any more than this.  I'm fairly certain I don't, in fact.  I like the bold, black tribal tattoos, and I wanted it to be a bit like that, only with iconography from my own culture (assuming there's some Angle or Saxon blood in me somewhere.)  It's pretty much exactly what I wanted as it is:

X-Men First Class

What a great year it's been so far for films I wanted to see!  I can't remember another year like it.  But perhaps I'm getting jaded as a result, because I went into X-Men: First Class with high hopes and found it very … meh.

Part of this may be that I'm still obsessing over my newly kindled Thor fannishness.  It's funny, I could see that First Class was a better film than Thor – it had character arcs and important issues and slicker special effects and better fight scenes.  But, deary me, it was so very worthy with its earnest examination of social and self-acceptance issues that it seemed to forget to have any fun.

In that, I'm sure it's quite realistic for a super-hero film, and maybe the realism is why I didn't like it very much. 

It was nice to see some new mutants, and Banshee's appearance caused me to lose a 5p bet I'd had with my daughter a couple of years ago.  (I maintained that you will never see any red-headed heroes, red hair usually being reserved for villains.)  Banshee wasn't exactly the hero of the film, and his hair was more auburn than ginger, but it was close enough.  It still doesn't count as a great step forward for inclusivity, though, when set beside the fact that the one black character was there to be canon-fodder, and all the female mutants were on the 'wrong' side.  (You can see why they would be, mind you.  That's the side I'd have chosen too in the circumstances.)

The scene with Magneto pulling the submarine out of the water would have been awesome if it had come before the scenes of Magneto doing even more awesome things in the last two pictures.  I did enjoy the final showdown, and thought it was cool that Xavier got to share in that death (nice to see his telepathy has its downsides too.)  I also thought "you killed my mother!" made a nice change – so many heroes are fixated on their fathers to the point where you wonder if they had a second parent at all.

But setting it in the 60s and being faithful to a certain amount of the skeevy sexism of the period meant that quite a lot of it left a bad taste in my mouth.  I remember what that was like, and it was no fun the first time.

Magneto pretty much stole the show, and Xavier came across as such a self-centred dimbo that I wasn't really able to feel the central ethical tug of the story at all.  Someone more eloquent and likeable should have been on the "humans are not necessarily our enemies" side, particularly if all the evidence of the film was going to be weighed against them.  Perhaps the film makers thought that was obvious, but it wasn't obvious enough for me, given that every character on the other side had perfectly good reasons to be there.  Someone who was slightly less oblivious of society's dark side than Charles would have been a better choice for the mouthpiece of the 'right' side.  As it was, he failed to convince me to cheer for him – which meant I didn't enjoy his victory as much as I should have.

So yeah, this is not much of a review because I can't find much enthusiasm for the film.  I don't really want realistic politics from my gosh-wow, "isn't it fun to blow things up in awesome ways" escapist super-hero films.  At least, not this much of it. 

I guess I also feel that there are things too terrible to be used – or at least used like this – as melodramatic backstory to the wish-fulfilment fantasy of being gifted with cool powers that set you outside the normal run of humanity, and the holocaust is one of them.  I don't know why I feel like that with this film, and didn't with Magneto's backstory in the previous ones, but perhaps it's because those terrible things are that much closer in this one and cast a denser shadow as a result.  Or perhaps it's because the social outcast/super-hero metaphor breaks down for me when it's looked at as closely as this – none of these super-powers leave you exactly powerless in the face of human evil, after all.

Awake anthology

Cheyenne Publications owner Mark Probst has launched a great new project, begun after the rash of gay youth suicides a few months back. The problem may not be in the headlines at the moment, but it's no less serious. The Trevor Project, founded in memory of one such young man, is dedicated to preventing glbt teen suicide and helping kids survive adolescence.
And there are some GREAT stories:

Reviews
"Four top authors take on GLBT teen issues—and the proceeds go to the Trevor Project? I'm so there!"
Brent Hartinger, author of Geography Club and Shadow Walkers
Awake is now available for sale. Four acclaimed authors have provided YA stories of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender teens. All net proceeds go to The Trevor Project. Retail 12.99.

It's available in print and various ebook forms, and you can find it here:
Amazon (print)
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0982826761
Barnes & Noble (print & Nookbook)
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Awake/Tracey-Pennington/e/9780982826768
Amazon Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0055KUFSM
TLA Video:
http://www.tlavideo.com/gay-awake/p-324060-2
The Book Depository (free shipping worldwide)
http://www.bookdepository.com/Awake-Tracey-Pennington/9780982826768?selectCurrency=USD
Amazon UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/0982826761

Belated Wildfire post

Comprising the rest of Chapter One

Previously – Sceldwulf, having lived his three score years and ten, decided to stir up trouble with a story of the old gods, and then commit suicide.  Now that everyone is feeling properly on edge, there comes a knocking at the door…

The litany was hammered into silence, the priest's spell broken by a pounding at the door. The onlookers almost laughed, but then Aesgifu said, in a little girl's voice;

"Adrian, what is outside?" and the smiles died.

Who knew better than a priest how to summon things from the darkness?

It seemed to Alfred, when he had heard the words, that the blows had a sound that no mortal wanderer makes, momentous and heavy. Sceldwulf's words haunted him, like a warning from the dead. No-one moved.

Then Goldboru, Ecgbert's queen, laughed. She laughed very loudly at the warriors who sat below the throne of her husband.

"I remember a time," she said to them, "When warriors were proud enough of their honour to do battle with demons. What do you think Wulfgeat One-handed would think of you, standing gaping at a knock at the door like poor frogs in a rainstorm. Now stir yourselves. How would you like to be kept waiting on a night like this?"

Cenna threw open the great slatted wooden door and its iron hinges shrieked. The firelight was swallowed up by the wolf of night, lighting nothing. At first the stranger who stood there was only glimmers of red and gold against the pit of blackness and his face was overshadowed by the dark. Then he stepped forward, into the light, and his tunic showed red as blood, and the gold and garnet animals at his belt and shoulders were like fire and flame.

He was a man, young and handsome, and dressed in the Vendel Northman fashion, with his collar open and his golden hair washed and combed. Adrian turned his haggard face away from him in distaste. As if he sensed, in his holiness, something alien and wild in the man, something tainted. 'What a night for a stranger to be in our hall!' he murmured to himself, 'What a Devil's-chance! And I don't much like the look of him either.'

The stranger gave up to the door wardens a pattern-welded sword in a dark leather scabbard, with its name in silver runes on the hilt; 'sviga laevi'; Firebrand. He bowed to Goldboru where she stood between the high-seat pillars, shielding his eyes as if from her beauty. She liked the compliment, she smiled. But Adrian noted only a power-play and he frowned.

Moving with a dry shuffle of robes upon the dirt floor Adrian came close to the stranger and gazed with his pale gaze into that fair face. All there knew that you didn't meet that gaze for long. Many wondered then that the stranger looked up through the dragon-hoard of his hair mockingly, and smiled as if the old man was a foolish child. It was Adrian who looked away, finding those dark eyes too disquieting, too strong even for him.

"My name is Ingjaldr," said the man, brushing past that fearsome priest as if he were a slave, "You would say 'Ingeld'."

"Welcome, Ingeld." said Goldboru graciously, settling back into her carved chair, "And I bid you welcome in my husband's name, Ecgbert, who is today in the court of his sister-son the king of Lindsay. Tell me, what brings you to my hall?"

"I am fleeing from sea-peril and land-peril," said Ingeld, "The sea was the safer. The story is simple; My brother is ring-lord of a land far from here and lately there has been a plot to put up against him a new man, a stranger to our hall. It's a knife in the back for me either way, whoever I support. So I travel."

He said it glibly, as if it were a joke, or a lie.

"Does your brother have a name?" said Adrian suspiciously.

"His name is Vakr." Ingeld helped himself to a seat close to the fire. He held out his sword-haft calloused hands to the blaze. A faded scar on his right hand proclaimed him blood-brother to some man, but he bore no other mark of parentage or kin.

"And is he 'Wakeful'?" Adrian asked, scornfully. His voice was loud in the silent hall.

"Always." said the stranger melodramatically, like a false bard, playing to his audience.

"Only God is always wakeful." said Adrian, making his way to the door. His black robes trailed in the straw. The noise was like quill on parchment.

"I think you're right." said Ingeld, and laughed. Adrian passed into the night with a frown on his face. When he had gone the warriors gave thanks.

"My Queen," Alfred turned to the dais. The light from the iron tripods glimmered in Goldboru's eyes. It shocked moving sparks from the cross on her necklace.

"My Lady, you cannot allow him…" There was no question of who 'He' was, "…To so dishonour my grandfather."

"Aye," Athelgrim spoke up. He stood beside his son and the authority of every scar on his face spoke loudly behind his quiet words;

"All men die, and Sceldwulf's death was due, but honour, or dishonour, lives forever. Such a dishonour would be a slur on my family which we would take hard."

"Cast him out of your family or live outcast yourself." said Goldboru taking up her husband's sceptre, to show that she spoke as the king, "I didn't care for what he said. He brought me dishonour before God and His priests. Are you so fond of him that you're willing to be lordless? Or perhaps you agreed with what he said? Are you just waiting for an opportunity to forswear your God too?"

Athelgrim bowed his grizzled head and moved back to his bench.

"I will never renounce my God," he said, "Or my lord. Do what you will with Sceldwulf. His honour is no longer mine."

"What is the quarrel?" Ingeld asked softly of the younger man. Alfred was looking at his father, with disappointment.

"My grandfather died tonight." he said warily. He noticed the amulet on its gold chain which the stranger Eorl wore. It was a tiny spear with a cross-beam below the head and the rune 'Os', which signifies Woden, upon its shaft. He had thought at first it was a cross.

Sceldwulf had described in detail to him once the signs by which the followers of the different gods might be known. Alfred knew that such spears were worn by nobles and by berserkers to show that their path was given to the Father of the Slain. Woden didn't have much use for commoners. Alfred knew that sign was a dangerous sign, for the Wael-Father, Woden, was a god of death and a sponsor of deceit, and his followers were merciless.

Nevertheless, because he liked the man he said; "He took his own life and cursed God as he did it."

Then he worried his lip until the blood came. He didn't know how much more to tell. The stranger looked at him with guileless eyes. So he said; "Now the priests refuse to bury him in Christian soil. They would have us bury him as a slave. He is the founder of our family, the oldest here."

"He was a pagan?" Ingeld asked. At Alfred's shamefaced nod he said,

"Then bury him with pagan honours, beside his long-fathers in the graveyard upon the cliff. The sea can bear his soul from there to Noatun, the Ship Haven."

Alfred shivered at the sound of the words. He didn't like to hear the names, there was something familiar in them which made him feel homesick.

"You too are a pagan?" he asked in an undertone.

"Would I forfeit my welcome for it?"

"It would certainly be colder." said Alfred, pressing a finger to his wounded lip and grimacing at the sting. He knew that it might be safer for a pagan to be outside with the elves and the monsters than inside with the priests.

"Then," Ingeld smiled wryly and tucked the amulet inside his tunic,

"I am as devout as I need to be. But I know the rituals. I could help bury him in the way he would want, and deserves."

"You're right." said Alfred, "And my family will see it."

The dawn was an underglow of red beneath black clouds.

"Woden has given him a pyre." said Ingeld to Alfred. He pointed to it as they made their way at the end of the procession.

"You believe that?" Alfred asked, dismayed and a little awed. He didn't like to think of a devil watching over his grandfather's funeral.

"I know it." said the pagan, "Your grandfather is honoured by Woden. He fought once by the side of god, didn't he? The Gelding doesn't lightly forget such services."

The swift morning breeze wrapped Alfred's cloak around his legs as he stopped.

"How do you know that?" he said, "How long were you standing outside our doors, listening to private words?"

"Be calm." said Ingeld, "I am no eavesdropper."

He moved on up the steep grassy track to the eagles-nest of a graveyard. It was a green sward, littered over with rocks as if giants had played jack-

stones there. The sky was pale over it. An open, lucid whiteness. The gulls lamented. Pillars of sunlight burst through the cloud and silvered the water many miles around, so that they seemed to be on a green ship, floating on a cloud of glory in the air.

"Then how do you know?" Alfred insisted.

"Look around you." said the stranger, "The gods are smiling…I read their thought in the web of the world as any skilful person can; from the way the wind blows and the sea-birds wheel a knowledgable man can learn much, if he cares to. Besides the gods are the friends of all who worship them, and a man should keep up with the news of his friends."

"You are a witch then?" said Alfred, and he recoiled from the foreigner with a look of fear.

"Not I." said Ingeld.

They laid the body in the grave in its best clothes. A gold buckle gleamed at the belt and at the shoulder the horse-head brooch, newly polished, glowed a soft copper-red. Though the priests had forbidden it the stranger took it upon himself to place the grave goods beside the dead man, gently.

"A spear." he said, "He must have a spear."

"He has a sword." said Goldboru, puzzled, "He's unlikely to need anything more.

"The spear is more important." Ingeld insisted, "If you grudge him a spear then a spear-head, to show he is under the protection of the Father of the Slain."

Goldboru tugged at her skirt like a little girl but she said, "That's not much of a recommendation."

Athelgrim frowned. "Let us not half-honour him." he said, "If we are to give him pagan honours let us give him full rites."

A spear was laid beside him and the grave closed. Then Adrian said; "I don't see that keeping him in his grave," and for fear of the old man walking he blessed the place and shook holy water at the head and foot of the grave. Then he turned his back on Sceldwulf and began to walk away.

When the small mound was raised and covered with turf the old man might have been there for centuries in a cold and salt-stained peace. A spear of sunlight transfixed the mound as they left and then the clouds thickened and it began to rain greyly.

"You see," said Ingeld, pointing to the sunstrike, "Woden sends his spear Gungnir for the old man's soul. He must have been a great warrior. Or did he perhaps have the friendship of another god for a favour of a different kind?"

If Alfred had thought there was mockery in that light voice he might have slain the stranger there where he stood, but how could Ingeld know of that second shame? Even if he did he would have been a fool to voice such an insult. A fool, or a man of great courage, and the stranger appeared to be neither. So Alfred said,

"He spoke of one named Loptr."

Ingeld laughed, "The Sky Traveller," he said, "That one has many names and few of them complementary. He has been called Loptr in the North, and Loki, and Lotha in England. His followers are brave enough to joke with lives, sometimes even their own. There aren't that many of them though. Few enough for him to come to the funeral in person."

Alfred's eyes widened; "The sunshock…" he said, "It could have been…?" He knew that once an angel had appeared as a pillar of fire, and that a devil is of angelic stock.

"No," said Ingeld, smiling, "When our gods appear they go most often as men…are there any strangers here?"

"Only you."

"He cannot have come then." said Ingeld, "I call that very unfaithful."

He began to laugh, silently to himself, as they walked away from the grave. Alfred, lost in thought, did not notice him, but Adrian saw.

"The man delights in the damnation of another's soul," he said, pointing it out to Goldboru Queen, but she said;

"He's a stranger. He has no need to grieve."

"Demons can appear in the form of men." said Adrian, "They too would rejoice at a moment like this."

"He's not a demon!" Goldboru laughed, "He's only a young man. A bit strange maybe, but that's because he's a Flota, a Northman, and they're not quite the same as us."

"I've heard that in Gaul Northmen pirates are sacking churches," said Adrian, "I don't want that to start here."

"He's one traveller on his own," said Goldboru, "And probably a Christian. What harm can he do us?"

"We will see if he comes to church on Sunday," said Adrian.

"Yes," said Goldboru, "We will see."

British Flash anthology published today

and free to anyone who wants it

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Blurb
Enjoy this entertaining collection of flash fiction stories, each one a short but sweet expression of what it means to be queer in Britain, past and present. All these stories reflect the iconic sights and national character of the British Isles: a taste of our idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, but also an unashamed representation of the love, loyalty and laughter of our people.

Contents
Worst Pub in London by JL Merrow
Josh finds working at the Forlorn Hop duller than ditchwater—until a tall, dark stranger walks in and he's swept off his feet. Literally.

Our Place by Clare London
How can you know someone through short trousers, spots and secondary education, and then when they're a man and you're still beside them, find some other yearning for them?

We'll Always Have Brighton by Zahra Owens
Two men meet on a cold and rainy day in Brighton They have a painful history and they have a hotel room—can they forgive each other before they go inside?

Commission and Omission by Charlie Cochrane
Arromanches, 1994. Visits to the D-day beaches have become a pilgrimage for Stephen. He counts his life as starting in 1939 and finishing in 1944. Here.

Paint by Stevie Carroll
Her most successful art has been created on living human bodies, and at last she has found her muse: Layla. Now, working with a different type of pigment, artist and muse can create a work of art for their eyes – and lips – alone.

Ben's New Colleague by Serena Yates
When Ben Imberg's secret crush leaves for Scotland to be with his new boyfriend, Ben is devastated. Meeting Ron Linsley, the new head of the Science Department at the Komlos Foundation, however, gives him new hope…

Giving It Up by Josephine Myles
Gay men can't donate blood without breaking the rules, can they? A student protester caught in the act is mortified to have to explain himself to the bloke he fancies.

Thoughts in Spring by Mara Ismine
Ash is looking forward to a peaceful weekend—but a rook with other things on the brain messes up his plans and his house at the same time. Will Ash survive the weekend with his sanity intact? Will the rook keep its feathers?

Mouth Almighty by Victoria Blisse
Boyfriends Ben and Pete share everything, including their appreciation of good, local cheese—and the delicious young lady in the cheese shop who's more than willing to serve them!

Reunion by Lisa Worrall
Toby had hated every second of school, so why on earth would he want to attend a reunion? Well, there was one reason – Mickey Hayes, the captain of the cricket team. But Mickey hardly knew Toby existed—or did he?

While the Boys are Away by Lucy Felthouse
Amelia's with Toby. Gemma's with Rob. But when the four of them go camping together, it soon emerges that Amelia and Gemma are more than just good friends!

Nessie by Caroline Stephens
The thrill of a mystery no-one's ever solved has kept marine biologist Jude Hannigan in the Highlands for months. Now his time is up and his sunny home in Malibu calls. But quiet and sexy Callum McAllister might just tempt him to stay by the banks of Loch Ness—monster or no monster.

Slap and Motley by Sandra Lindsey
Terry and John are old friends, new lovers. But Terry doesn't know everything about John—as an unexpected gift is about to reveal!

Like a Girl by JL Merrow
Her name's Nina, and she punches like a girl. And what the bloody hell's wrong with that?

Last Client by Jay Rookwood
Jon Brickman is strong. Jon Brickman is independent. Jon Brickman needs no-one's support.
Or so he thinks.

Sunshine Superman by Elin Gregory
In the summer of '68, Sam Yelf was young, innocent and knew all the words to Donovan's 'Sunshine Superman' by heart. Forty-odd years on he might be a little hazy about lyrics but there are things, and people, whose memory will never fade.

Escape to the Country by Stevie Woods
It wasn't to escape the pressure of a Season in London that Stephen and Andrew left town for the country. It was for the privacy, the freedom, in which they could express their love for each other.

Prince Charming's Buttons by Stevie Carroll
Ash slides between genders off stage as easily as changing from one role to another on stage. As both Jen's girlfriend and Colin's boyfriend and with their current production of Cinderella drawing to a close, Ash needs to take the next step in managing the two relationships.

Yesterday Upon the Stair by Erastes
Old lovers, reunited. But the years they were apart have marked them both.

Benefits of Peace by Alex Beecroft
In the balmy summer days of the 1930s, what could be more peaceful than punting on the Cam? But punting, Timothy discovers, is harder than it looks. Still, with a handsome English student to befriend, fortune favours the brave, does she not?

They Who Come After the Stories End by Sophia Deri-Bowen
Everyone knows the great love stories: Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester, Rick and Ilsa, Scarlett and Rhett. But what of those stories that were thought of, but never written, the ones that lived only in daydreams? Meet Tup and Davies—two characters who might have been.

Download it FREE here

Yet again, titling help needed.

So, I'm at the stage with Under the Hill in which I should imminently be getting a contract to sign – at which point I will officially announce as much as I know about who the publishers are and when it's likely to appear.  But in the mean time my editor and I have decided that as it's so long, the best thing is to publish it in two parts.  This is fine, as there happens to be a natural cliffhanger right in the middle, which will make a great place to end one book and start another.

However, that means that Under the Hill becomes the title of the whole series (if you can call two books a series), and I have to think of separate individual titles for each volume.  I was thinking Knight's Gambit and Queen's Pawn.  The trouble starts in the first book when a knight of Faerie meets Ben and recognizes him, and it ends in the second book with two Queens of Faerie having a smackdown, aided by our heroes, so that seemed appropriate.  But I can't help thinking that chess references may be as common as muck.  What do you think?

Otherwise I was thinking about something to do with take-off and landing (to tie into the fact that two of the heroes are WW2 airmen.)  Or something to do with being kidnapped and rescued (though that might be a bit spoilery)?  The first book mainly takes place in Bakewell in Derbyshire (a small, picturesque village in the UK), with diversions into Elfland, whereas the second takes place mainly in Faerie, with diversions into our world.  But Under the Hill: Village People and The Queens of Faerie, while appropriate, might be a bit misleading.

Can anyone help me?  I'm really useless at this!

New obsession is obsessional

What to do when stuck at home with two ill children – try and catch up on all the comic reading you missed for the last 20 years.  Also brush up on your mythology.

I have been consistently hating on (comic and movie) Loki's horned helmet for decades, but now, thanks to the evidence of the Loki Stone from Kirby Steven church in Cumbria UK, it's become clear to me that the ram's horns are as authentic as you can get.  The Snaptun stone in Denmark, where you can tell it's him by the scarred lips, also has cute little horns.  So, since horns appear to be obligatory, I shall resign myself to them on the grounds of "love me, love my silly hat." 

 

Much of my reading over the past week has been comics.  I thought I couldn't go wrong with a run written by J Michael Straczynski of Babylon 5 fame, but aside from the slight novelty of Loki spending (almost) the entire run in female form, the story was not exactly original or challenging.  And while I applaud anyone actually showing Loki's canon indifference to gender, and I think he's a lot more stylish as a woman, it's not really enough to carry a story in which in every other respect nothing at all unexpected happens to anyone.

Thor, Tales of Asgard is fun but forgettable, with some cute brotherly interaction between teenage Thor and Loki, but not much else to recommend it.  I enjoyed it but was not blown away.  But if the new series of Journey into Mystery comics written by Kieron Gillen carries on in the vein in which it's started, then it's going to be EPIC. 

Imagine a story about child!Loki written by Neil Gaiman and gorgeously illustrated in a painterly rather than comic-book style, and you'll come close to how great this first issue is.  Little Loki is serious, curious, capable, still slightly sinister, irreverent and adorable.  

And he has the most fantastic conversation with the ghost of his dead elder self – I mean already we're in "Wow, cool idea!" territory, without even getting to what the conversation is about. 

I thoroughly approve of elder!Loki's stated purpose in getting himself killed – because he couldn't bear the fact that he'd become so obviously evil that he was predictable.  Just what I was thinking myself through the Straczynski bits   How can you not love that as a reason to die?  And I love the fact that this dangles in front of the reader the tantalizing possibility that child!Loki might grow up differently this time – to be the unpredictable (but not completely bad) trickster that he might have been in early mythology.

On the other hand, I also thoroughly love the possibility that elder!Loki was just saying that, but has actually planned to make a takeover bid over the boy later down the line.  (Not that if elder!Loki went up against child!Loki – the elder version would necessarily win. I offer this magnificent smackdown as evidence: )

I've just got hold of #623 and it's already both delighted and saddened me.  I'm delighted because I still have no idea how the story will unfold or what will happen in the end.  And I'm saddened because it's already getting stuck into the question of predestination – if you are predestined to be a villain, is there any getting out of it?  So far in this story Loki has got himself killed and reborn without half of his memories or powers in order to escape from the influence of his past actions, his fate and even his own personality.  (Which I think is pretty awesome already.)  And still you can almost see the justifiable suspicion and hostility of everyone around him, and his own attempts at doing something heroic, pushing him right back into the "sorry, you were just made to be evil" corner. 

And you know, people diss comic-books all the time, but I haven't read a novel in a long time that has tackled such a big subject in such an entertaining way.  So far, at least, it's epic storytelling at its best, and kind of horrifying at the same time.  This is why I don't believe in predestination – because it sucks.  I swear I'm already braced for the possibility that the end of the story is going to break my heart.  Considering that Marvel probably needs one of its greatest villains to carry on being a villain, my determined hope for a happy ending seems unlikely to be fulfilled.

So yes, my researches into what I've missed in the Thor comics over the past 20 years have turned up one disappointing story, one OK one, and one (so far) superb one.  Not a bad average, and I've barely scratched the surface.

Has anyone read The World Eaters or #618-622?  I've heard bad things about the World Eaters, and nothing at all about 618-622 (do they even have an arc name?)  Is it worth me getting hold of them? 

I do wish they wouldn't make it so damn difficult to find out which bit of what story goes where!

Wildfire, Chapter 1 part 2

1st part available here: http://alexbeecroft.com/2011/05/since-there-is-no-lokaday/ in which the elderly Sceldwulf is telling his disapproving kinsfolk about how he once met two gods, when they were being hunted out of England by the new faith.

Chapter 1, Part Two – in which Sceldwulf fulfils an old oath.

 

Now what it was that woke me was a knocking at the door, so I pulled on my things and opened it with the tip of my father's spear. Lo and Behold, it was Grima;

"Quickly boy," he says, "Take your family and hide in the trees, the King has run me to ground."

Father and mother being awake now, they look at him dumbly, and then mother flies into a rapid packing, hustling all the hens and the goats out into the paling morning. Father says "What do you mean?" like an idiot .

Grima picks up the shield and glowing spear that he's left outside and says;

"I have had enough of running away. I am a warrior. The foreigner has tracked me to here and now I choose to stand and fight. You are a farmer, and a peasant, I do not expect you to help me. Take your family and flee."

I'm looking at this spear all this time and let me tell you, no human made that, it shone like the sun.

Meanwhile Loptr comes out and he sees Grima and bows;

"My Lord." says he and

"My brother," says Grima, "Will you fight for me?"

"We share blood," Says Loptr, smiling almost as if he wished the other well, "And he is an enemy of mine as much as yours. I will fight."

Mother, hearing this talk of battles, was hustling the children out to the safety of the holy grove in the ash woods to the south. But when the two of them went for the door my father was before them crying, "Wait!"

Well, they stopped. I think they were humouring him.

"You," says my father, pointing at Loptr, "You said you didn't know him. Will you be a liar to my face?"

"I said," says Loptr, grinning with delight, "The only Grima I knew was Woden. I wouldn't lie to you."

That was the biggest lie I'd heard in my life, of course, but I could see father grasp the ends of it. He reeled like a dying man.

Well, before he could rake his senses together there was the faint sound of hooves on the morning and Grima pushes out of the door. No longer an old man, but a tall warrior with a bright face and a proud helmet with a golden mask.

In front of us a smoke floated on the breeze. A thick grey smoke. They were burning trees.

"The cowards!" hisses my father and rushes to Grima, spear in hand,

"I'll fight for you!" he cries, "Grima, or Woden, or whoever you are, I'll fight for you against these cowards."

Now Grima, he turns to father and says; "For this you shall be one of my champions."

I nearly died on the spot with pride.

Then I looked at Loptr, and I couldn't conscience the thought of him going into battle alone, with no-one to guard his back. So, of course, I stepped forward, and I said,

"I've never fought, but if you'll have me Loki, I'll fight for you."

"You'll be damned," says he, but

"Everyone goes to Hel sooner or later…" Says I, "Always excepting your champions, Most High. And I may as well be damned for you as for anyone."

Well at that Grima gives me a glance that shows he's guessed everything that went on. But there, if Loptr was his blood-brother he'd know already what sort of thing he was likely to get up to.

Now the hoofbeats were louder, drumming like the wild hunt, and we could see the flash and glitter of weapons in the sun. As they come in an eagle darts in, shrieking, and settles on Grima's shoulder. Out of the wood there comes two wolves and up to him like dogs with their tongues lolling and their tails like banners "Now we're evenly matched!" laughs Loki and even Grima smiles. Me, I was terrified; as those riders came close to us I could have sworn they weren't human. They wore strange robes and sang strange war-songs. Their hair was short, like the hair of slaves.

"What are they?" cries my father.

"Priests." says Grima, "Priests of a new god that no-one can see."

"They have a great power in them." says Loki, "But my sons would eat them, were they here."

At that they were on us, and I can't give a good reckoning of the fight. They didn't give us time to cast the ritual spear, but it was in and all in confusion. There was only a flashing of hooves and a wild neighing. Then one of them took a swipe at father and I saw him bury his spear in the rider's side. Then one was coming at me, and suddenly everything was slow and clear. I tried to get out of the way but he rode me down. So I slit the horse's belly from beneath and blood poured out of it all over me. Loki dragged its rider down and that was the end of one shaven priest.

Meanwhile I could just see the wolves hanging on the throats of two horses and Grima fling his spear at one rider and take his sword to another. That spear was a wonder. It never missed its mark, and it flew back to his hand once it had done his will…

The last priest I slew. It was my first taking of life and the feel of the knife in the wound is still with me: The memory of his alien gaze. He looked even less human when he died. I hated him.

Now when the last of them was dead we laughed for joy. But our happiness was short lived. We despoiled the dead – that's how I got my sword – and we were off to drink to our victory when, on a grey smudged breeze, like pieces of drifting ash, two ravens floated to us. They settled on the house-eves above, cocking black eyes full of sarcasm at us. First one then the other hopped onto Grima's shoulder and spoke into his ear. Then he really did look grim and frowned like thunder-clouds.

The ravens flapped up to grasp a seat at the dragon-head that guarded our door and Grima looked at us sternly. "An army is too much for us to deal with and keep you from death." he said, "And the days have come when I need my followers alive. So, since we can't fight, we will go."

"Go where?" says I with the feeling of victory ebbing from me like pain.

"There's no point in being in a place you aren't wanted." says Grima again.

"What if you're not welcome anywhere?" says Loki meaningfully, and that time, the only time ever, I saw god look shamefaced.

"But where will you go?" insists my father, "Stay here and let my son and I defend you unto death."

"Are you trying to gainsay me?"

"My lord I hope not to be so foolish."

"Good," says Grim "It's not as if we'll be staying away…You aren't likely ever to give up meddling, are you brother?"

With that they turned around, laughing, and began to walk away. Then Loptr turns back to me and says;

"Sceldwulf, you do everything you can to stay alive. Tell all the lies you need…The worms will get you soon enough."

"But I will die for you!" I cried in youthful disappointment.

"Then wait until your old age." said he, "That will do just as well for me."

They turned and walked away like any mortal travellers. Then a veil of mist came over them and with it they were gone. I'll tell you, I wept. And in the morning when the army hacked through the forest to our door I cursed them in my heart and I would have killed as many as I could have got my hands on, but father said;

"I can't let these traitors enter my house, but you Sceldwulf must protect your mother and sisters."

With that he went out to them and he swore to kill their god if ever he got within distance of him. That angered them, I suppose. I heard them shouting, crying that he would be saved if only he abandoned the devils. That's what they called our old protectors – Devils!

Well father laughed in their faces. He was a proud man, and a warrior. But when they entered with his blood on their swords and threatened my weeping mother I thought: To Hel with truth. I will tell all the lies I need.

So I swore to the foreign god with oath-breaking in my heart and the safety of my family on my mind… Some of that army settled and brought their families, and here we are. The end of my story is this: Friends driven out, father killed, and myself sworn to slavery to some alien devil. Well, I've lived my three score years and now in my old age I will die for my gods. Just chew on this; you're sworn to the wrong one, and when you land in Hel with me, oh I shall laugh!"

There was silence in the hall. A bitter silence that may have been fear or disgust. When the old man took his life no-one moved to stop him. They watched and sat, shocked into stillness.

The blood dripped into the fire-pit and went up in a flurry of white sparks. Then Alfgama ran for the priests and they came hurrying in to drive the demon out of the hall, the demon that must have caused the deed. They swung thuribles filled with scent until the air was grey and thick and they chanted words, strange, soft, sonorous words, while the people huddled against the walls with their eyes wide. Sitting still as trolls in the daytime, frozen by the strange magic.

Even Alfred sat quietly there. He was the son of Athelgrim who was Sceldwulf's son. He was a young man, brown haired and brown eyed, gentle, though he could be fierce when he cared. He had been quite fond of his grandfather, but he sat as still as the rest. He didn't want the devil that had caught his father's father to turn its eyes to him. There would be time for grief when the hall was made safe again.

When the blessing was done Athelgrim's kinsmen bore the body away, and the black-haired British slaves mopped up the blood and strewed fresh rushes and handfuls of buttercups down on the packed earth floor. Then the arguing began.

"He was a good man." said Athelgrim.

"A suicide and a pagan." said Adrian waving his brothers out of the hall.

"He shall not lie in Holy ground."

The monks and the priests left; going out to the austerity of the monastery, out to Compline and another world. Out of the smell of blood and beer and away from the warriors mocking smiles.

"He must lie somewhere." said Goldboru, Queen, "It will be hot tomorrow."

"Then he must lie with the thieves and the oath-breakers," said Adrian, "Where he belongs."

"He was my grandfather!" Alfred exclaimed, "He was my kinsman. Are you calling him a thief?"

He was a tall warrior, Alfred, and strong, and he laid a hand on his sword-hilt as he spoke. Adrian was not frightened. He had come across the grey straits from France when all of England was full of warriors like this and, with only a Gospel book he had copied out himself, he had outfaced every one of them.

"Not a thief," he said, "An oath-breaker, and the oath sworn to God. There are other words also; suicide, sodomite, pagan and priest-murderer. Titles he was proud enough to boast of in this hall. He will go to Hell wherever he is buried, but I am not hypocrite enough to give him a good man's grave.

Few men could hold Adrian's gaze for long. He had pale eyes, white eyes in an old, skeletal face. Alfred soon looked away, hanging his head in surly silence. Summer thunder could be heard miles away, moving down in crow-black clouds from the mountain. Then Adrian began to speak again, to chant in Latin, a slow invocation that none there understood. All the power of the Eagle warriors was in its soft words, the Eagles who had once ruled the world. Alfred moved away quickly, and with religious awe.

The litany was hammered into silence, the priest's spell broken by a pounding at the door. The onlookers almost laughed, but then Aesgifu said, in a little girl's voice;

"Adrian, what is outside?" and the smiles died.

Who knew better than a priest how to summon things from the darkness?