Nystyra, for the first time in a long while, was shocked into speechlessness.
"I thought witch burnings were a thing of the past," she said. In Avalon's early history, there had been quite a few, but a martyr named St. Ursian had changed all that. In memory of St. Ursian the Martyr, who was beloved by Druid and Christian alike, the Church had agreed to stop burning Druids and preaching against the Old Gods. A few fanatics had lingered, however, as some will always do, and they passed down their somewhat prejudiced views as well.
"Try telling that to them!" said the Druid furiously. "For all my life, I lived in that town, me and my brother. We healed their sick, we blessed their crops, and even shared a cup of wine with the local priest. But a year ago, he died, and things began to get worse. Then, a few days ago, a mendicant friar - a witch-hunter - came by, and he began to rouse up the town folk against us. First they cut down the Great Oak, for which the town of Greatree is named, and the Dryad that had lived in the tree died of grief. Then they came for myself and my brother, Math. Silvercoat - that's my brother's pet wolf - tore the throat out of one, but the witch hunting friar took it as proof that the wolf was a familiar spirit, a demon in a wolf's body, and they overpowered Math and bound him to a stake to be burned. I tried to fight them, but they stoned me and left me to die. Math will be burned at noon, in two hour's time. I cannot free him."
"Maybe we could help," Nystyra suggested, moved by his plight. "What is your name, by the way?"
"My name is Mathonwy of...well, formerly of Greatree. And thank you for your offer, but really, you'll only die. You look to be a Fey, and that alone is enough. They will catch you, and they will burn you as a demon."
"Not if I had help," Nystyra said. His words, you look to be a Fey, and that is enough. They will burn you as a demon, had given her an idea. Surely the Fey would not be too pleased that the Druids, always their friends and allies, and, morever, servants of the Lady of the Lake, like themselves, were being burned. Her father's clan had lived in a place called Wellspring Rock by the men who lived in the area. Dwr'cadearu was the Elfish word for it. Perhaps it was not too far to be reached in two hours. She was grasping at straws, she new, but she could not very well give up and tell this man, 'Sorry, can't help after all.'
"Do you know of a place called Wellspring Rock?" she asked him, not having very high hopes. It would be quite ironic if the Emberlord's apprentice died by burning at the stake.
"Yes...it is only an hour's walk, but I have never been there. That deep into the Elfinwoods, only a high ranking Druid would tread, for fear of becoming lost, or enchanted by Elfin-harps..." the Druid said, bewildered. "But don't you see? That is an hour in the wrong direction! What about my brother? What is in the Elfinwoods that would help me?"
"An army," Nystyra said, pleased with her own cleverness.
* * *
The first sign that they were being watched was the arrow that passed by Nystyra's head, so close that it severed a stray strand of hair.
"Oo, don't hurt us! We surrender!" Eliad squeaked, covering his head. He was obviously no bastion of courage, for he was shaking like a leaf and peering around anxiously. It was probably, Nystyra reflected, the first time he had ever been, or thought himself to be in, any more danger than the chance that a stray footstep might squash him.
Then, the Fey stepped out of the brush. He was short and willowy, with black hair streaked with gold, and eyes that continually and subtly shifted color, going from luminous grey to hazel to green to silver and back to grey again with every change in the light. His skin was brown and his ears were tall and pointed. He was clad in deerskin and carrying a bow and quiver. He didn't .
"Mortals, why have you come to this place? It is death for your kind to trespass here, in the realm of the Lady's* People."
"I am no ordinary mortal," Mathonwy said. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, to display his Druid's serpent tattoos that coilned around his wrist.
"And I came to see my father, Erwyll Mathkeir Haddryn yn Ymwng'Tylwyth yn Dwr'cadaeru," Nystyra said, brushing back her hair to display her pointed ears.
"Your father is well known," the Elf said, "His children do not often come back to see him, but that you know his true name proves your intent. And a Druid is with you, so you may be trusted. But I must need place an enchantment over the both of you, in case you play me false."
"If that is what it takes," Nystyra said.
The Elf began singing softly, under his breath, and suddenly Nystyra felt dizzy. The world was spinning and her eyelids felt as heavy as castle doors. She slid to the ground, asleep. Across the clearing, Mathonwy did the same thing.
* * *
When she was awake, she was staring an Elf in the eye. It was a very familiar eye, the same shade as her own. And the nose was eerily familiar too.
"Are you...Do I know you?" she asked.
"You must be Nystyra," the Elf answered. "I am Erwyll Mathkeir Haddryn yn Ymwng'Tylwyth yn Dwr'cadaeru. And, I suppose, your father. What was your mother's name? Was it...Dierdre? Or was it Enid?"
"It was Petra," said Nystyra, feeling justifiably angered.
"Oh," answered Erwyll shortly, noticing her irritation. The coversation dwindled from there, rapidly to a halt. Soon, another Elf, an Elf woman, informed them that the clan had assembled and was anxious to hear the intruder's news and decide whether or not to punish them.
"They are going to burn my brother!" Mathonwy said, as soon as they reached the Counsel Oak, a huge tree that seemed older than the earth in which it grew. A hundred Elves were waiting, sitting in a great circle. The oldest ones sat their places with knowing expressions, while the younger ones laughed among themselves and at Eliad's jokes. As a fellow Fey, though not of the same race, he had been trusted almost immediately. Most of the Elves were armed, with bows and arrows and bronze knives (iron is as deadly as poison to those of the Tylwyth Teg, or so Adrin had taught Nystyra). Mathonwy's exclamation produced very little response. Apparently the Elves thought it some inscrutable human custom to burn each other alive regularly.
"Perhaps you should be a bit more...expressive," Nystyra suggested in an undertone. Speaking in public was not something she liked at all, for she was prone to trip over her own tongue at the worst possible times.
Mathonwy tried again.
"My brother and I are Druids," he said. "We are friends of the Lady as much as yourselves." And he related the entire sad tale to the assembled Elves, finishing with, "And thus, you see, it is a gross insult to the Lady that a Druid should be burned in a town a bare league distant from her domain. Indeed, when the passion of the townsfolk for burnings is exercised on my brother, where will they turn next? They will be burning the very trees of the Lady's domain next!" It was an impassioned oratory, delivered with much feeling, and when Mathonwy was finished, the counsel exploded. Every Elf lept to his or her feet, shouting things along the line of "Outrage!" and even "Burn the mortals! Let us see how they enjoy it!"
Because Elves are ageless, and live for many millenia if not slain by violence, generally they take a long to time to decide to do anything in unison. Most of the time, every Elf acts as he or she sees fit, and then argues with the others why they should do the same.
This was why Nystyra was pleasantly surprised when, almost immediately, the entire clan, from the elder, who had been centuries old in the time of Arthur Pendragon, to the youngest, who was barely a century old, took their weapons and set off at a quick jog through the forest.
In the town square, the mad friar was delivering an impassioned speech.
"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!" he cried, foaming at the mouth. "As the Good Lord cleansed with fire and the Spirit, so we cleanse this wretch before us with fire!" The friar's bloodshot eyes bulged out of his head and he grew purple in the face. He looked on the brink of apoplexy as he raged on. "With fire we cast out this plague for our midst! The fires he fraces now will be candleflames compared to the fires of Hell in which he shall roast forever for his sins!" He was now gesticulating madly as he screeched, pacing back and forth in front of the pyre. He looked, Nystyra thought, rather like he had rabies.
The man tied to the stake was a burly, brutish looking man dressed in the green garments of a Druid, though his were torn and bloodstained. Stubble dotted his chin, and half his face was crusted with dried blood. He tugged frantically at his bonds, alternately cursing his fate and praying to his gods, Ceridwen and Llyr and Herne the Huntsman, to grant him mercy.
They had almost been too late, Nystyra noted. A with a torch was already approaching the pyre. Eliad grinned, seeing a chance for mischief. He gestured toward the torch, beaming gleefully as the torch spoke to its startled bearer.
"PUT ME DOWN!" shouted the torch. The man nearly dropped it. His face went pale and he made an odd croaking noise.
"Sorcery!!" shrieked the mad friar. "The foul demon seeks to save himself! Fear not, for we are doing the Lord's work!"
Nystyra decided to get involved.
"Funny," she said scathingly. "It looks like you're doing murderer's work."
"Silence!" the madman screamed, searching the crowd. Nystyra stepped out of the crowd, her spellbook and Coal in full view. "Another witch!" the friar screeched. "Burn her too!"
Some townsfolk stepped hesitantly forward, but Nystyra cupped her hands around her coal, concentrating on its fiery depths, muttering a hurried incantation. The coal dimmed slightly, as power went out of it to fuel her spell. Several townsfolk fell down, asleep on the spot. Others pulled back, giving Nystyra a wide berth. Others stepped forward, still intending to sieze her. They never got that far, for the Elves, who had been hiding in the crowd concealed by enchantments, stepped forward, menacing them with drawn bows. The crowd drew back.
"Hear me out!" Nystyra said. Public speaking had never been her strong point, but she knew lives hinged on what she said. This was no time for self-doubt. "These men have been friends and healers for years. Why do you now turn on them merely at the word of a self-proclaimed witch hunter. Have not these Druids healed your sick and made your crops grow? Did you not look on them as friends? Why must this change, merely because this man says so? Look at him. He has more the look of a rabid dog than a holy man about him." As she spoke, Mathonwy began untying Math from the stake.
The "rabid dog" was watching his triumph slip away before his eyes. Desperately, he tried to rally the crowd. Frothing and breathing heavily, he pointed his finger in the general direction of Nystyra, Eliad, and the two Druids.
"They are demons! Demons, I tell you! Kill them now!" he cried.
But the crowd was losing sympathy and respect for him. Nystyra caught a few mutterings, "Ye know, she's right. The thin one healed me daughter when she was like to die from the fever..." "Remember young Caddaric when he were mauled by that bear? Them two stitched him right up..." "Aye, they've shared my food and drink a dozen times..." "He does look like a mad dog, doesn't he?..."
"Burn them!" shrieked the mad friar. His forehead was covered with sweat, he was twitching madly, and his eyes looked ready to fly from his head.
"Not very creative, are ye?" Eliad asked with an innocent grin. "Didn' get much schoolin' when ye were young? I bet ye can't even read that flyswatter ye're carrying." He pointed to the dusty looking Bible the man carried.
"Back, demon!" shrieked the mad cleric, frothing and spitting and turning purple in the face.
Meanwhile, Mathonwy had freed his brother from the stake, and they began to walk away. The mad "friar," seeing his victims escaping, picked up a torch and made a rush for the pyre. He never got that far, for a bowstring sang and his hand sprouted an arrow. As he stumbled back, a crossbow bolt struck his backside. Eliad lowered his crossbow and beamed in a self-congradulatory way.
"Oo, but that was a good shot wasn' it?"
Nystyra tried not to laugh as the friar capered about, holding his posterior. She put on her stern face and said in a commanding voice, "Bad hound! Begone, you rabid dog, and should you return, elf-arrows will be waiting for you!"
The friar looked as though he was about to say something defiant, but then the full force of Nystyra's spell caught him. His face turned a pasty white, and he looked upon Nystyra as though she waas his worst nightmare. With a yelp not unlike a beaten cur, he threw down his Bible and ran away, in the direction of the mill pond.
* * * ** * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **
Whew! that took a while...
DM's notes: Although Nystyra doesn't have any ranks in Diplomacy, her player's good roleplaying gave her a +2 bonus to her check when she made her speech.
Next installment coming later today.
By the way, if you are reading this story hour, please post comments, if only to say "This sucks," because I want to know that someone reads my story hour...
