It had been a long, long winter.
Dark, cold and full of terrors, if you get me?
To help you get on board with the vibe, let me confirm that Christmas in Dark Age Cornwall isn’t so much festive as it is a long, damp reminder that life is mostly unremitting suffering with occasional sparks of insane violence.
The headland around Tintagel jutted its arse into the sea, waves pounding against it inexhaustibly. And I think you should recognise how utterly shitty the last few months have been that I’ve not got the wherewithal to do anymore with that innuendo than that.
Life’s been bleak.
From the top of Merlin’s tower, I’ve watched, day after day, as smoke tried valiantly to rise from a few hearths in the castle, but the salt-streaked gusts dispersed it with ease. To be honest, I could barely tell where the freezing air ended, and the freezing people began; everyone seemed coated in a film of misery so thick it was practically ancestral.
I’d offered to lend a hand with some Qi-based assistance, but everyone looked at me like I’d suggested we sacrifice a few virgins to the sea gods. Turns out, some people are married to their suffering and don’t appreciate ‘outsiders’ interrupting the honeymoon.
“Merlin never did anything like that,” has become a phrase I’d learned to hate.
Beyond the castle, though, the cold shit got even realer.
All of the fields I could see were completely bare, and the few farmers seeking to eke out a living moved through them like condemned men heading for the gallows, their cloaks heavy with frost and their faces heavier still. Joy to the world didn’t appear to be just thin on the ground; it seemed to have buggered off entirely.
Dumnonia might have a shiny new Pendragon, but that didn’t seem to offer much in the way of yuletide cheer. The hills and moors stretched out like the world’s most depressing quilt, patched with sparse woods clinging on like drunks who refused to leave the bar. Streams limped along, half-frozen, while gorse bushes stood defiantly, like tiny, thorny middle fingers to the universe.
It was a Big Mood.
And that’s without thinking about the sea.
Oh, the sea was the real bastard. It roared against the cliffs with righteous fury, like Tintagel had insulted its mother and refused to apologise. On the rare days when the clouds grudgingly parted, the sun showed up like the deadest of deadbeat fathers for its supervised contact, pale and half-hearted, muttering something about picking up some cigarettes before promptly disappearing again. Even then, the sea kept at it, determined to make us all as miserable as possible.
The winter wasn’t just long—it was the seasonal equivalent of the bleep test. Done in your pants. Whilst pissed.
Obviously, only a complete mentalist would attempt to put spears in the field with the weather this shitty. And, despite our suspicion that Aurelius Ambrosius had all sorts of bats loose in his belfry, he'd done nothing to break with conventional warfare wisdom on that front.
So, we’d had a bit of time to take stock of the situation.
However, the pause in the almost constant fighting has been kind of a good news/ bad news situation as far as the Court of King Arthur is concerned.
In the ‘win’ column, especially after some sizeable recent reverses on the battlefield, we’d been able to replenish the forces of Tintagel somewhat. In fact, under the entirely fanatical tutelage of Lancelot and - to a lesser extent - Bors, the spears of Dumnonia were positively bristling with piss and vinegar for the coming campaign season.
When there’s nothing to do but train, it turns out you can become pretty fucking good at it with the right encouragement.
However, it is important to remember that there are only so many British men of fighting age that we actually have to call on. Every last one of them might well have been crafted into a verifiable Chuck Norris, but when the rumours were of the Saxons out recruiting us ten to one, it was hard not to think we were spectacularly losing the arms race.
I’d joked that without the seemingly countless number of teenagers bearing more than a passing resemblance to our Beloved Lord and Monarch, we’d already be dead and buried.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Oh, how we laughed and laughed.
My memory is of Guinevere finding that little quip less than amusing . . .
What can I say? Girlfriend’s somewhat lost her sense of humour since ballooning to the size of a midrange SUV.
Oh, and if the legions of hairy bastards massing on the border weren’t enough, it seems that the High King had put out another call for every European cultivator to come to the ‘fuck the British’ party. The Queen’s spies told us that the number of Qi flingers that Aurelius would have at his fingers in the Spring was even more than those he’d managed to put in the field to blow up Isca.
Considering all we had to offer in response was me and a very bitchy Qi-killing sword, I wasn’t sure I loved those odds.
Are you getting to the Meridian Stones now, my dear?
Fucking hell! I told you it had been a long winter.
Right. The bloody Meridian Stones.
You'll remember that one of the key reasons we were so keen to claim Caeldfwch was that we needed a way to be able to quench the superiority of the Saxon wizards and – of course – the power of Ambrosius himself. Well, now that Arthur possessed the Dark Blade, we were happy that - at least in direct combat - the British had an ace of our own to play.
However, as our spies - well, Guinevere's spies. Not totally sure what the fuck is going on there, to be honest, but the increasingly mahoosive Queen is spectacularly well-informed on all manner of things - reported that pretty much everyone from over the sea with any sort of talent with Qi had been dragooned into this latest invasion, it appeared that we would need a plan.
Caeldfwch can only be in so many places at once, Merlin had said. Wherever Arthur will be, we will be able to fight on equal terms. And wherever you are, we will have more than a chance. But, as Pendragon, the King must protect all of the British lands.
Arthur had agreed when I'd subsequently brought the problem to him.
"So, what do you two propose I do? I will not be found hiding behind Tintagel's walls when the fighting begins. However, neither can I lead every engagement, especially as we are planning a wholesale invasion of Saxon lands when the Spring comes. If the news my wife has brought us is true, we must have a way to attack their wizards."
Are you at the bit about the Meridian Stones yet?
Fucking hell, mate. Yes, I’m finally up to the bit about the fucking Meridian Stones!
Tugging on the air of calm in my Artist's Studio, I let my mind float back to a heated discussion of a few weeks ago.
Apparently, the problem—how Merlin put the problem, in any event—was that the strength of the Qi flowing through me wasn’t yet anywhere near potent enough to realistically combat what was coming.
I had some game, so – barring Aurelius himself - I would be the strongest Cultivator in any fight I found myself. But ten, twenty, thirty to one was going to be a deal.
As I was still having nightmares about having my arse handed to me by Aurelius Ambrosius, I couldn't exactly disagree. Even if Arthur was able to pin that fucker down with Caeldfwch, someone else would be needed to deal with all his little Mini-Mes, and I just didn't have that sort of oomph in me as of yet.
But - what do you know? - Merlin had thought himself up a plan . . .
Apparently, the smart solution for this little problem involved hooking me up to some sort of massive fuck-off Qi battery and going full-scale murder-Cerebo on their cultivating assess.
That’s truly a horrible way of putting it, my dear. What I proposed was a very specific ritual conducted within the heart of a group of Meridian Stones. Such a ritual will allow you to cut off access to the Qi of the land from any invader. In this way, you can perform much the same role as I did when I was alive and ensure no foreign Cultivators are able to channel. In this way, a Meridian Stone formation focused upon you will protect the kingdom, dragging the Qi of these shores away from the Saxons and neutralising their numerical advantages.
"Yeah, I’ve got that part, Big M. But you’re not exactly explaining how all this is supposed to work. You’re talking about arranging a bunch of giant rocks in the middle of a field and suggesting that will magically fix all our problems. It’s all a bit... Wicker Man, don’t you think? But with rocks."
As I have kept saying, they’re not just any old rocks, my dear. Each of the stones we need will be a carefully crafted anchor for the very flow of Qi. And once we have located appropriate stones, their placement will be critical—each stone must align with a specific Qi leyline, channelling the natural power of the land into a focal point that you will be able to access. Trust me, my dear, once they are raised and connected into the appropriate formation, they will amplify your strength and massively disrupt the power of our enemies.
"Amplify my strength how?"
Through forcing the convergence of native, ambient energy. Once the circle is complete, the Qi will flow like a river, gathering force as it goes. And you will be able to tap into all that power, just as you do with your own core. However, and this is where my plan is truly quite brilliant, even if I do say so myself, the stones will provide you with the moxy to stand against the Saxon Cultivators and even outstrip the power Aurelius Ambrosius himself.
I did fancy an opportunity to level the playing field for Round 2 . . .
"Okay, so we set up this rock garden, switch it on and suddenly I’m fully a supercharged Saxon killing machine?"
In the simplest of all possible terms, yes.
“And let me guess, this little stone circle of yours is going to be so tastefully placed, subtle and oh so discreet that no Saxon will even notice we’re pulling off a major magical coup right under their noses?”
Subtlety is not the goal here. Effectiveness is.
As you can see, this is a simply foolproof plan.