Book of Herd, page 21
“It’s true,” he said, as Eirwen relaxed her grip on his words. “Gadael must have a Lady.”
“Yes,” Eirwen said, with a nod. “You’re right. But I have never heard…” She patted the books she carried. “And nowhere have I read that the once grey city of Gadael ever, ever, needed a Lord.”
“Wait,” Rhyfedd said, as Eirwen followed the stone song out of the library. “You must wait. Lady Eirwen!”
Eirwen silenced him with another pinch of her fingers. The stones called to her, and she felt good, better than she had ever felt. It was as if she was back on the beach, galloping through the surf, arms outstretched as if she was flying. Magic, of one kind and another, flooded her veins, buoying her hooves until Eirwen was convinced she was flying. And then, at the end of the corridor, Nerthol, the great Marwolaethi warrior, dipped his head.
“Affalathaye, my Lady,” he said.
Eirwen rewarded Nerthol with a smile as he opened the door. He fell into step beside her, walking with her through the crowds of Marwolaethi as they gathered in front of the tree.
“Affalathaye,” they said, as they parted to let her through.
Eirwen walked to the tree. She pressed one hand to the bark, felt the rough weave of the wood against her skin, the sharp edges of the singing stones that cut into her palm, and the trickle of black magic – charcoal-black – running down her cheeks as she turned to the Marwolaethi of Gadael and smiled.
“My name is Eirwen of Scethrog, Reader of Agendor, and I will be your Lady, if you will have me.”
“Affalathaye, Lady Eirwen of Gadael,” they cried, and it was done. Gadael had a Lady, and Lady Losin’s last remaining stones sang, until the bark of the dialedd tree blistered and cracked and a great light bathed them all in renewed glory.
Eirwen closed her black eyes as the stone song filled her body. Only when the singing stopped, and a hush fell upon the Marwolaethi, did Eirwen open her eyes. She saw Soffan first and waved for the young Marwolaethi mare to join her, pulling her close, kissing her bald, black scalp as she wrapped her arm around her.
And then Nerthol cleared his throat.
Eirwen looked at him, suddenly aware of the raw power he commanded, together with the combined power of the Marwolaethi warriors he presented to her.
“Your personal guard,” he said, as they all bowed before her. Nerthol took a knee and dipped his head. “We await your command, Lady Eirwen of Gadael.”
Soffan giggled, and Eirwen joined her.
“Rise, Nerthol,” she said. “All of you, rise.” Eirwen let go of Soffan and gestured for her guard and all the Marwolaethi gathered before her to rise. If there was a shred of doubt, that this was unnatural, or not meant to be, it was gone the moment the Marwolaethi looked upon her and she saw a people she could lead, perhaps even save, and make great again.
“I am your Lady,” she said. “I will serve you, with the power of song and stone and rune, but first,” she said, opening the Book of Agendor. “I must tell you a story.”
And there, in the light of the dialedd tree, Lady Eirwen of Gadael began.
Epilogue
A thin wind whistled through the tunnels spiralling down through the roots of the Kachemal Mountains. Carreg, the gelding, lifted his head as the wind curled into the prison pit. The wind tousled his hair, flicking it one way and then the other, until he batted the wind to one side as one might swat a fly.
But the wind was restless, driven not by the elements of the moving of hot and cold air, but by the love of a fellow prisoner, trapped in a similar pit – out of sight and out of reach, but now very much awake.
Awel the Nymph added her voice to the wind, lifting Carreg out of the darkness until his eyes blazed with a light he dared not believe was real. And yet it was real, and the light shone upon the sides of the pit, revealing a handhold there, a lip of rock just big enough for the edge of a hoof there. And Carreg rushed to the side of the prison pit. He reached for the handholds, pressed his hooves upon the rocks and he climbed until he could slap his arms over the edge and kick and scuff his body out of the pit.
“Awel?” Carreg’s voice cracked as he forced more words past his lips. “Awel, my love?”
And Awel sang, guiding Carreg to the edge of her pit, just as the singing stones in the city at the foot of the mountains guided the young mare to the tree. Carreg stumbled at the edge of Awel’s pit, and then reached down into it, deeper and deeper until he felt the brush of her fingers upon his skin, and he clasped her small hand in his.
“Pull me up, my love,” she said, as Carreg faltered at her touch. “Pull me up and we can be together.”
Carreg lifted Awel out of the pit and into his arms, pressing her small body, a third the size of his own, against his chest. She was smaller than he remembered, and her long hair – matted with filth from the pit, scratched his cheeks as she buried her head into his neck. Awel’s tears streamed down Carreg’s bare chest, and she wiped them away with her hands.
“Don’t,” he said. “I need to feel you are real.”
“I’m real.”
“Yes, but I need to feel it.”
And she kissed him, then, pressing her lips against his as her body shook within his arms. He held her close, felt the heat of her breath upon his skin, her tears on his chest, and her hands upon his face, lips upon lips, until she pulled away, brushed dirty strands of hair from his eyes, and said, “We are free.”
“Yes,” he said. “Free.”
They kissed again, exchanging tears and dirt, the stench of the pit, and old sweat from their bodies, until they felt whole, recharged, and renewed.
“And what now, my love?” Awel asked.
“Now?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “What now?”
“Now,” Carreg said, as he slid Awel around his body so she could sit astride his back. “Now they will pay.”
Carreg sniffed at the thin wind bringing fresh air down the tunnel and took his first steps to freedom. The nymph clung to his back, whispering words of comfort and enchantment as she spun a ring of magic around them.
The spell had been lifted.
The gelding and the nymph were free.
End of Book I
Welsh Inspiration
Fantasy worlds are often grounded in human history, myths, and legends. The Chronicles of Ceffyl are no different, with much inspiration drawn from the Welsh language. Welsh has an otherworldly feel to it, and hints at a richness that can be found in Wales today. Welsh readers familiar with their own language will recognise many names and terms used in Book of Herd.
Other inspiration includes equine terms, past and present, and Hingst, the Danish word for stallion.
About Iago Jones
Iago Jones is the author’s pen name. He makes a living writing crime and thriller books, but his true love is fantasy and science fiction. Iago has Welsh blood in his veins and celebrates the Welsh side of his family in these books. He has lived in the Arctic, experienced the long months of winter darkness, the endless summers, and the bite of bitter winds. But he also enjoys a good movie on the telly in his house hidden at the end of a forest road, surrounded by tall trees, owls, stags, and the occasional wild boar snuffling beneath his bedroom window.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events, are entirely coincidental.
BOOK OF HERD
First edition. October 13, 2022.
Copyright © 2023 Iago Jones.
Cover Design Chris Paton.
Written by Iago Jones.
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