Ethandun (The Lost Dacomé Files #2)

By Alexandra May

"I am Stone. I am Iron. I am Oak."

Lord Tristan Dracanburh has a secret. A secret nobody knows except his family and his teacher, Halíka Dacomé. A secret he's kept hidden but one that could get him killed if discovered.

The year is A.D. 878. Danes rule the great Kingdoms of Northumbria, East Anglia and Mercia. The only great Kingdom left in the way of a new Scandinavian Empire—and ruled by Tristan’s father—is Wessex.

On the eve of the battle of Ethandun, Halíka Dacomé and Lord Tristan capture a Danish spy by using Tristan's unique gift. The spy discloses details of a plot to kill Halíka Dacomé and her unborn child. Nerído Xipilé and his army of nine hundred Kievan Rus' elves have joined the warlord Guthrum's armies to eliminate the Dacomé bloodline for eternity. Halíka Dacomé must die before the Danes can rule Britain.

Now Lord Tristan and Halíka Dacomé with the King's help have only a few hours before their dawn battle march to thwart their opponent’s plans. Lord Tristan must decide if he’s willing to expose his secret to secure the Danes defeat and win Wessex back.

The cost will be higher than anyone can imagine.

Ethandun is a thrilling tale of love, friendship and the joys and sorrow of war mixed with a glimmer of fae and druid intrigue. A must read for followers of the Lost Dacomé Files and the Primord series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandra May
• Release date: Mar 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370667642

Alexandra May

Alexandra May is an English author of four books, bringing together the epic saga of Halíka Dacomé and her modern day equivalent, Rose Frost.Elemental: The First, Elemental: Origin The Battle for Arcanon Major and Ethandun draw in Alexandra's love of strong women characters, sci-fi, history, romance and a little warmongering on the side!For information on the series please visit her website http://www.alexandramay.co.uk

Book preview

Alexandra May

The Lost Dacomé Files

Ethandun

A Historical Time-Travelling Fictional Fantasy

This book is written without prejudice.

We, as nations and their people, are not who we once were.

- Alexandra May

For the real Tristan, my nephew

Copyright © Alexandra May 2017

The moral right of the author has been asserted

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental

ISBN 978 1370667642

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Except for use in any review no part of this e-book/publication may be reproduced, extracted, photocopied, recorded or otherwise circulated without the prior permission of the author.

Alexandra May can be contacted at www.alexandramay.co.uk

Smashwords Edition

Dear Readers

I’m so grateful you’re reading this book.

If you’ve read #1—The Battle for Arcanon Major—and are confused about the missing years, I’ll get back to those. These stories are important events that happen in conjunction with my Primord series. The Lost Dacomé Files are not written in chronological order.

Please bookmark ‘Historical Notes’ and ‘The Elementals’ tabs found at the back of this book. The Glossary will fill in any parts you may have missed. Before you begin you should know this book is written in British English.

The Battle of Ethandun was real and took place in Wiltshire, Southern England, in A.D. 878.

During the Dark Ages the language spoken in the area was Old English, with a mish-mash of other languages from the Continent, which sounds very unlike the English used today. In fact, I couldn’t write Old English as our alphabet doesn’t contain all the letters used in the old days.

To this end I have taken liberties in using the local colloquial language of modern day to emphasise dialects. If you read The boy don’t remember… this has been written grammatically incorrect on purpose.

I will say, this is a work of fiction and although I’ve researched this era extensively, I may have got some historical intricacies wrong (and I’d love to know what they are so email me!).

A great many texts regarding King Alfred were destroyed over the centuries due to fire or degradation. Science in the present day is helping us piece together more than we’ve known before thanks to archaeology.

This isn’t a seriously historical book. It follows the series of Halíka Dacomé—a mythical mitochondrial eve—but if you’d like to read more about this era please head towards Bernard Cornwell.

Thanks and enjoy!

AM

"He was loved by his father and mother, and even by all the people, above all his brothers, and was educated altogether at the court of the king.

As he advanced through the years, his form appeared more comely; in look, in speech, and in manners he was more graceful than they.

His noble nature implanted in him from his cradle a love of wisdom above all things."

The Life of Alfred - Asser

Ethandun

Scribe Notes

An account of the Battle of Ethandun during A.D. 878 between Alfred, King of the West Saxons, and the Danish warlord Guthrum. 

As told by Lord Tristan Dracanburh to Brother Henry at Longleat Priory, in the year of our Lord 1347

It is inconceivable that this young man of not even eighteen years of age sits before me. He can impart clear details of his remarkable life up to and including a conflict of which so little is remembered.

The battle at Ethandun, history tells us, was the last bastion from evading Danish dominance. A conquering nation that held the west coast of Europe in its grasp all the way to Rome.  If Wessex had fallen, if King Alfred lost Ethandun, we would be under a different law today. 

In the years that followed Ethandun, every kingdom in this land would unite and become one great nation.

Angelcynn. The land of the English folk. The England of now.

This is the year 1347, and our king, Edward III, battles abroad, engaged in continuous land war with Philip VI of France, the first king of the House of Valois.

From its primitive origins to present day, war, it seems, is the universal backdrop that the English people understand.

Hereabouts in my priory, I must forget about today and what fate brings us tomorrow. 

Rather, I am drawn backward in time almost five hundred years to an era unrecognisable to this quiet shire. To an age when conflict ravaged the four corners of this land and unjustly affected every man in its wake. 

Lord Tristan, perhaps you can tell how it is you sit in front of me now. Where and in what year were you born?

I write my question with my ready quill, ink and vellum. The writing is slow but I do not think Lord Tristan will overtake my speed. 

He's a quiet boy. He shifts in his chair, uncomfortable with what I asked. I was born in 862, on an island behind the green one, to the west.

Lord Tristan’s dialect is a little odd. Old manuscripts have taught us the Anglo-Saxon language, or Old English, was fairly similar to Old High German, but this young fellow has spent time understanding our own, newer English. He still has trouble turning his tongue around phrases. All in good time.

Three months ago, Brother Selwyn and Brother William came upon him on the south ridge near Heaven’s Gate covered in scratches, gashes and bruises. Bloodied, shattered and drained. He looked like he’d escaped a terrible struggle. Little did we realise he had done exactly that.

They led him into the priory. They tended his wounds, dressed him and gave him nourishment. For one entire day he lay on a cot in the library near the fire. He spoke to no one. His eyes darted warily, his body skittish, and every sound caused him to flinch.

Lord Tristan was adept at picking up our words though. In his own unassuming way, he was discovering our language. How we spoke; how we used verbs and conjugation. When he blurted out his first sentence, we heard a mixture garble and guttural. Words too tangled with the German undertone he uses now. We had difficulty understanding him in the beginning. 

Lord Tristan struggled to explain he was a king’s son. However, in our extensive records, we found no evidence of a king bearing a male child named Tristan. His title name of Dracanburh was Anglo-Saxon, to be sure, but also yielded no record. He practised speaking often to everybody in the priory. Accepting corrections and reciting his sentences without worry of derision. Eventually, he discovered the knack of curling his tongue with our more unusual phrases. We were all ready teachers for Lord Tristan and he became an adept student. 

In three months, he has mastered our communication with near perfect precision. 

Lord Tristan’s war of the ninth century with the Norsemen was nothing new. 

These islands have been attacked by many different warring nations over the centuries, each seeking dominance and treasure. In 43 B.C., the Romans fought back the native Britons, with the Celts’ help, and spent centuries trying to conquer the people. Thanks to the Visigoths’ continuous harassment of Rome, the Legions departed four centuries later. As a nation now divided, they left the Britons struggling to find home values again. Many in the towns had adapted a Romano-British life; indeed, they’d all been born into that era and remembered little of the past existence of their Britonic ancestors.

Years went by. Cold weather abroad along with rising sea levels caused a mass movement of people in the continent. Many Saxons, Angles and Jutes, now bereft of their homes, settled peacefully in our lands. Many Britons travelled to Gaul, and Celts moved to Wales. Men quarrelled over kingship for decades, which spread chaos in the peoples’ eyes. 

In the late fifth century, the legendary Cerdic—possibly a Dane, Frisian or even a native Briton from the north—arrived on the southern coast of England with his ships, each carrying one hundred men. They attacked our southern shores, collecting captives along the way and turned them into slaves. They cut a swath through Hampshire and headed inland. In the years following, the invaders brought many more ships. These Angles and Saxons made a new home in the lower kingdom of the chalk lands.

Within ten years of his arrival, Cerdic called himself King of the West Saxons, or Wessex. He and his people settled. They created villages and towns. They mingled with the natives and adapted in unity. The migrants enjoyed their new life, one not as cold where they could farm and hunt more freely without fear of land flooding, and in the next few centuries the people began calling themselves Anglo-Saxons. 

By the time of the eighth and ninth century, the sporadic attacks from the continent had not ceased. Now most of the country was overrun. The ransack of sacred sites and artifacts angered and horrified the people. The churches and minsters were emptied of loot and burned. Then a more ardent threat arrived in A.D. 865. The Great Heathen Army. Soon the kingdoms of Northumbria, East Anglia and Mercia were ruled by Danes.

In truth, they might have come from the Skandar countries and they might have come from the Dane lands below. They might have been the original Saxons of our ancestors three centuries ago. We only knew one thing. They all sounded the same. They all looked the same. Some people claimed Norsemen had white hair, Danes had black hair. After centuries of torment, their features became harder to distinguish.

When they came, we called them Danes and Northmen. In the end, they were all Vikings with one goal. 

Plunder. Pillage. Kill. Conquer.

Most of all, they wanted to capture the only kingdom not under Danish rule. 

The land of the West Saxons.

Wessex.

Brother Henry, would you like to use that quill in your hand, or are you going to poke me in the eye with it?

Lord Tristan teases me with a half smile. For one so young, or old in his circumstance, his sense of humour is open and always with courtesy. He never means ill. We of the priory learnt this from the beginning. He is a kind soul.

I sigh and cast an eye over him further. His autumn brown hair touches his shoulders in thick layers. Soon he’ll need to tie it back if he wants to stay in my priory. 

The most startling aspect of Lord Tristan is his eyes. Not blue and not hazel. Something in the middle. Light violet. You automatically know from his eyes there is something otherworldly about this boy. His stare can hold your gaze for minutes without wavering. The second thing you learn from that gaze is his confidence. He’s like an older man who’s seen too much. 

He coughs and shuffles in his chair. Brother Henry, may I go? Are we done?

I wrench my thoughts aside to begin again. No. I’m sorry, Lord Tristan. Why don’t you tell me about your childhood? We can start there.

He purses his lips. Fer well, but my story does not begin there.

Oh? Isn’t that where all good stories start? At the beginning?

This isn’t any old story, Brother Henry. You will need more vellum, I think. He grins as I get settled again. Now tell me, Brother. What do you know about Halíka Dacomé and the Elementals?

My throat clenches, stricken. My quill falls from my hand, splashing ink across my table. 

Her name fills me with dread. Far too much, I think in answer to his question. Maybe he is the one who can save her. Maybe Lord Tristan can release Halíka Dacomé from her miserable prison of doom.

Before I can dwell anymore on it, Lord Tristan Dracanburh begins his story. 

My quill end settles back on the vellum, shaky this time, and the words appear underneath my hand.

Before I can tell you about myself, I must tell you about my father. A great man.

Chapter

One

On and on I ran.

Chasing him through thickets, wild hedges and unkempt hinterland. Straight through the heart of Selwood Forest like a speeding dart. Never slowing as I swung past sapling trees that reached high for a glimpse of afternoon bright, or as I skirted around great oaks with trunks as thick as ten grown men.

Tristan, tackle him at the next clearing. You can secure him there.

Dee spoke clearly inside my head, one of the many skills we shared. Mind-speak came in handy. She got hers from being an Elemental. Mine was a gift from my mother. Let’s get this over with. I’m tired and we’ve a big day tomorrow.

You think I don’t know? I really did. Tomorrow was the day of Days. The culmination of years of living with the Danish at the borders of our beloved land. It’s alright for you. I’m the one doing all the leg work.

Hurry with the leg work, then. I’m catching sunstroke

I grunted. Dee never got sick, but the sun was getting higher. Afternoon was close. Not yet. I have another plan. You might not like this one.

She pushed a subliminal eye roll through our link. Do I ever like any of your plans? Care to share this one?

Not yet, just sit tight. I’m still working on the details. This guy’s fast, that’s for sure. Won’t be long now. I’m gonna tire him out a little first before bringing him in.

She sighed, used to my bold if not enterprising techniques. You mean you’re going to play inside his head while he’s still running from you?

Me? What do you take me for? I would never.

Mockery always made her laugh. I could do what she’d said, but I had other ideas on catching this runt.

I galloped further, relishing the earthy smell of May growth yet still clambering to grasp his trace as I stirred up the clutter on the forest bed. I knew where he was roughly, but he kept darting in different directions like a drunken ferret. I really hoped he didn’t bite like one too. You never could tell with Danes.

Fallen logs were my biggest hazard, and jumping them was tiring, but I skidded past a few or leaped through the limited space available to speed up this chase where I could. My ankles and knees were starting to smart at my high landings and rolls. A human body was tolerant, but not where extreme heights were concerned.

And then, hanging on a tremor of breeze, I caught a tangible whiff.

There you are. Relief flooded me. I’d found the slimy toe-rag, although from the whiff I wished I could let him get away.

His clothes were stale with a death-like odour to them. His skin was likewise as pungent; unwashed despite the five-fingered hand of rivers nearby. Undoubtedly he’d spent the last few weeks feasting nightly on overcooked meat with no other healthy sustenance. His skin not only smelt bad but not bathing and wearing the same clothes every day? Dead giveaway for someone with my unique gifts. This spy I chased wasn’t very stealthy or smart. Just a Viking errand boy fulfilling orders from up high, no doubt. No older than me, younger even.

A holly branch had claimed a prize. Lucky. A clump of dull light brown hair clung to a shiny thronged leaf. Now that had to have hurt.

I was closing in and my enemy knew it. Fear now swamped his scent. He was sweating like a pig on a spit and very afraid of being caught. But then you didn’t have to be a genius to guess that last one.

He’s out-running you. You must speed up.

Sometimes Dee liked to think she was in control of me, and I did follow her orders. Mostly.

Currently, she was perched on a bench overlooking a glade two miles east, just outside the tent-camp. She wanted me to ambush the Dane boy. Not a bad idea, except I wasn’t sure how many weapons he was carrying and I really didn’t want to get stabbed while I tussled him to the ground. My way was easier, with a little more danger involved.

He’s not getting away, Dee, and I’m going as fast as I can. I’ll have him at the end of Heaven’s Hill. I’m going to make a Gate over the gully. Don’t stress!

You’re gonna do what? That’s your plan? Her pierce made me flinch; akin to screaming in my ear. No, Tris, you’ll do no such thing! Cut him off at the next rise. There’s a meadow which will give you ground to get the drop on him.

Oh, he’d drop, that was for sure. I shook my head at Dee’s idea. No, there’s no time. This’ll be over in moments. Trust me. I can make the Gate.

Jupiter and Mercury, watch over me, please, I prayed silently to my Gods. Please, please let me try, I pleaded in my head, but didn’t open the link to Dee.

Tristan! You haven’t trained for this. A Gate in…what? Open space? In thin air? No, I absolutely forbid it! If your father finds out…!

I know what I’m doing, and Father’ll never know, will he, Dee? Are you gonna tell him?

No answer. Then the faintest murmur. Tris, please don’t do this. I beg you.

I ignored her. She wasn’t my mother, even though I’d spent nearly every day with her since I was six.

The harsh rustle of ground bedding to my right sounded out my next turn and swerve. Lo, he was headed exactly where I wanted him. Herding him this way had been a good idea, he’d taken the hint. I’d determined he didn’t know this patch of Selwood as well as I did.

The reek of the pale faced, pale-eyed Dane was beginning to turn my stomach some more. I had to gulp my breath down, or, more importantly, keep anything from coming up.

He was tiring. Hot pockets of steam hovered above my head before dissipating.

Almost at the edge of the hillside, my spy realised his fatal mistake. He’d been cornered.

With nowhere to run and cliff-tops on all three sides, his only remaining option was to jump down into a gully. A fatal jump. No one could survive that drop. Not even me.

My leg muscles pumped, adrenaline and blood raced. I hissed breath in and out through my teeth and pushed on to reach him faster using the druid air trick my father taught me. The passage through the forest became uncluttered as I pushed the giant bubble of air ahead. The stray prongs of bushes and low-lying tree branches yielded to my wish instead of slapping against my cheeks.

And still I did not slow from my target.

I was so close. Bright light flickered through swaying golden leaves, momentarily blinding my vision. I caught the glimmer of a tall, vertical shadow against the white sky.

Startled, the boy’s face turned horrified as he saw me emerge from the trees running straight for him without slowing. He cried out something in those words I could only just understand as he finally beheld his hunter. Words like, please, no and don’t hurt me, and something that sounded like not you.

His screams were lost as he stumbled forward, away from the deathly drop at his back. Arms rose in front, pleading with me.

Tristan! Stop! You’ll never make it!

I hurtled towards the boy, grabbed him around the waist and hauled him into the space ahead.

Over the cliff top.

Right over the edge.

We hung for a split moment. Nothing but air above and below.

Then we plummeted. Free-falling from a two-hundred-foot high precipice.

The Dane struggled, striking out with his legs. I held on.

TRISTAN!

I gripped him tighter as I Signed the air with my free right hand.

The Norse boy’s eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp under my arm. He’d passed out. Small mercy.

Close to halfway down, I finished the Sign. Air whistled passed my cheeks and into my ears as I watched the ground swell and rise up and up and up.

I shoved my hand through the Gate, waiting for it to open.

Silence followed by a thousand screaming voices twisting with time. A sudden tug as we were dragged through the Gate by