The Jhojan Timelines - Chapter 4, Book 8 (The Book of Jhojan)

After Doggos took his leave, Geàrr and Jhojan set up a temporary camp close to town, just west of the castle, where they saw themselves fitted with leather and steel.

Rumors spread like wildfire through the camps; some had said the Norse had dragons—firebreathers with massive, powerful wings that beat like a tropical storm.

Others said as much but focused more on the rumors about rape and the fact that raiders had kidnapped hundreds of Celtic children, along with word of Highland women being taken across the oceans westward to some distant Viking settlement covered in ice.

This visually upset many of the veterans; many could be seen walking off to the edges of the campgrounds in various directions, and they wouldn't return until their composure was regained.

Jhojan had purchased a buckler and a broadsword—some items he wished would last for an extended period of time.

Geàrr procured hardened leather armor for his chest and bracers for his arms. He garbed himself in the modest leather armor, but after stepping away from Jhojan, a new addition in the form of a large shield was slung upon his back. The Highland man had a few spears bundled, along with some provisions and medical supplies.

He’d spoken with a military official, while Jhojan examined the merchandise from the traveling merchants who had heard of an increase in foot traffic near the castle. Dozens of stalls had been erected, and the sound of the tent canvas rippling in the wind dominated as most of the men remained stoic and silent.

The meeting was that evening. A messenger had arrived the night before. The news was grim: news of the breakdown in negotiations at the diplomatic level spread throughout the camp.

King Alexander III was ordering a strike on the Isle of Skye, but further information was not forthcoming; nothing else could be shared until later that day.

Jhojan examined some of the charms at one of the newly erected stalls. An entrepreneur had set up a stall near the main road and was selling a variety of smaller items. Geàrr pulled him by the shoulder, gesturing to the crowd forming near the outer gates, and the men heading across the bridge and into the castle.

Having been distracted by all the wares, Jhojan now took in the sun’s position through the dark grey clouds that shrouded the highland region. He set many of his items upon a side table within the shared canvas tent, as he was unable to find any stones of interest.

The massive castle sat upon an island mound, out in the waters where Loch Long and Loch Duich meet. It was situated at a strategic defensive location to help manage the waterways and the volume of ships passing through the system of lochs in the region.

Vikings had executed various raids in the area; therefore, the fortress was fitted with a curtain wall that surrounded the entire island. A naval force of some dozen birlinns floated just offshore, pointing west in a defensive position.

Commanders stood to either side of the bridge, effectively filtering out those who would be allowed to attend the meeting firsthand. Geàrr and Jhojan had been directed to the castle, with no additional information on what assignment they would be issued.

Upon arriving at the checkpoint, they learned, first, that they had been invited to the evening’s banquet and were to receive special instructions. Geàrr passed through without any trouble. One look at Jhojan, and the commanders requested a quick chat.

“We don’t want any funny business,” the man said in French, “we have heard about a wizard in these parts. Best not be casting anything unusual.”

He looked upon Jhojan with weary eyes, untrusting.

Quietly, Jhojan rejoined his friend and the two of them crossed the bridge. Red flushed the ancient man’s face, but Geàrr was there to calm him.

“He was just doing his job, you did dress appropriately for battle, intimidating to say the least.” Geàrr reminded him of the battle garb he wore under his woolen cloak.

Original designs stemmed from those Caledonii battles versus the differing legions of the mighty Roman Empire. Their patterning was created to intimidate the enemy; if not focused, a soldier could mistake the wearer for a large wolf.

Pulling his cloak closed, Jhojan heeded his friend’s words, and the two of them passed through the front gate. The iron tips of the gate itself had a peculiar, daunting effect as they walked underneath. Once through, the castle itself came into view, and a bastion lay before them where the paths forked. To the right, a path leading to a watch tower overlooking Loch Alsh to the west and the bottleneck where it connects to Loch Duich.

On the left, a small stone guiding wall that led to the southwest wing, fortified by a portcullis that guarded the entry to the inner castle. On this evening, it was open.

Torchlight flickered about the various stone walls; soldiers strategically placed also held torches. The line of people flowed through the gatehouse and into the inner courtyard. To the companies’ left, facing a southwestern direction, was the Seagate, and through it Jhojan spied a few additional birlinns docked.

The entrance to the keep was up a large stairway on the south-facing wall. The ground floor displayed a billiard room, but was designated as the servants’ quarters.

The smells of the night's menu wafted from the floor above, where the kitchens were located. The courtyard stairway wound up the inner castle’s wall, ending at the entrance to the banquet hall.

The hall was rather large, furnished with a piscina near the entrance for all to see. Dining tables were placed in parallel rows, all of which had been set for the night's festivities. To the south, a withdrawing room was located, and an attendant stood near the transition room, holding complementary items on a tray. All attending entered the hall, just before an announcement caught their attention.

“Dinner will be served in a few minutes,” an attendant announced to the room at large, “please make yourselves comfortable. Spirits are being offered at the far end of the hall.”

He spoke French, which led to some translating for others, but many decided to partake in a bevvy while Geàrr and Jhojan found their assigned seating opposite the aumbry at the back of the room. Kenneth Mackenzie, constable of the castle, walked in alongside Uilleam II, Earl of Clan Ross. A man left their company to sit next to Geàrr and Jhojan. He introduced himself as Kjarnac Macmaaghan.

He had a dark deposition, a face worn down by battle, and a cold look in his eye. Gave Jhojan pause when exchanging greetings, he looked to Geàrr, who returned his gaze with one of caution. The cloaked man had a killer’s aura about him, but also was a man of few words.

A few minutes into the gathering, a second attendant made an announcement.

“Your attention, everyone, dinner is served.” In nearly perfect execution, the castle staff entered from a side entrance opposite the withdrawing room and presented a feast to the guests—smells of roast chicken and duck, combined with notes of baked goods and fresh fruits.

Men arguing in the corner, once the aroma met their sense of smell, ceased to do so and returned to better spirits. Many of whom now rushed to their seats, having seen the food being served.

The evening’s host sat on the right-hand side of Kjarnac, flanked by Uilleam II and then Kenneth Mackenzie, respectively. Their backs to the stone wall, in order to face all those in attendance.

As the sound of clinking dishes filled the banquet room, Kjarnac turned to speak with Jhojan quietly to relay instructions. They were to meet with the constable as the evening’s pleasantries were taking place.

Geàrr and Jhojan were placed just so, done purposefully, as there was a private chamber located at the back of the hall, just behind where they had been arranged to be seated. The roasted meats and baked delicacies were a hit; the banquet room was abuzz with excited chatter fueled by the best the staff of Eilean Donnain had to offer.

Mid-meal, a shoulder tap took Jhojan’s attention away from the room at large to a crouching Kjarnac who was waving them to follow. The alcohol had done its job well, blunting the instincts of those present, enough so that those at the head of the table could slip away unnoticed. Kenneth Mackenzie stayed behind and joined the commanding officers on the raised wooden platform at the end of the hall.

The two highland men followed quietly to a passage at the back of the room and entered through a secret door that was cracked open, only to find the room occupied by a handful of men.

Uilleam II had excused himself earlier in the evening, the reason being the need to prepare for the night's military action against the Norse-held Isle of Skye. Here he stood with a company of personal guards, along with soldiers of the fortress, a battle map lay open on the wooden table in the middle of the room. Featured was the Loch Alsh region, he pointed to the Kyle at the western edge of the body of water, which connected to the waters of the Inner Sound that separated the isle from the mainland.

The commander wanted a small company to penetrate a defensive installation on that southeastern coastline of the isle, on the western banks of Loch Alsh.

Jhojan was privy to the defensive structures, a castle built by Norse royals.

As the story goes, there was a princess who married a clan chieftain by the name of Findanus Mackinnon, and the castle was part of the dowry. It was said that Findanus and his wife, nicknamed Saucy Mary, stretched a chain across the Kyle and charged a toll on all sea venturing captains desiring to travel through the calmer waters of the loch system. Seeing as the turbulent waters of the Mirth were treacherous in comparison.

Kjarnac, Geàrr, and Jhojan were tasked with spearheading the offensive to capture the castle. Effective immediately, their contingent of three was to depart in less than an hour’s time before a platoon was to follow and begin operations on the isle.

The three of them found a spot near the rear, after leaving the private room, which held an exit within a few steps. They departed just as an army officer was striding on an elevated wooden platform, and a podium had been erected on the opposite side of the room atop the platform.

After the guests had drunk and eaten their fill, the news of a military action against the Isle of Skye was revealed.

They were to be prepared to defend themselves against any person present; many Norse farmers and villagers were known to be sufficient with an axe in battle.

The operation was to begin at the stroke of midnight.

The officer provided information on movements ordered by King Haakon IV; their sources had revealed that the Norwegian sovereign was to muster a naval armada in Norway and then set sail once warmer weather arrived. There was also word of a few Norse ships that had already anchored in the Firth of Clyde, sitting just off the coast of the Isle of Arran.

“Scouts spoke on half a dozen campfires being visible from across the firth.”

As quickly as permitted, Geàrr and Jhojan left the castle without being noticed, as the room was focused on the presentation being given. They were to meet Kjarnac at the crossing of Loch Long, all without drawing any attention to themselves as they moved out of the fortress and town. They were instructed to pack light; their horses had to be left behind along with the majority of their belongings.

Geàrr decided to bring his claymore and shield, leaving the rest to the young squires posted outside the local stables. He made sure they understood that he was knowledgeable about every item he had brought. As a last-second addition, he took a cast-iron pot, some seasonings, and his sling.

Jhojan was accustomed to traveling in such fashion; he carried with him a broadsword and a yew bow. In various locations about his person were caches of throwing knives, the number of which varied on the day.

Besides waterskins, there was little needed to be packed for this type of espionage. Similar to Geàrr, Jhojan took a moment to revise his selections and added a small circular buckler, which he strapped on his back. Geàrr responded by strapping his newly acquired shield to his back.

The road was dark, and the clouds did not relent, leaving the pair in nearly pitch black as they left the safety of the castle perimeter. A voice met them from the shadows. Kjarnac stood at the midpoint of the bridge, his silhouette perfectly aligned with the dark spaces between the bridge torches.

Sparing no time, they departed with speed. Staying low to the ground, they moved along the northern Scottish-occupied shore of Loch Alsh, keeping their profile as close to the earth as permissible. As they neared the Kyle, the castle on the opposite bank was alight, each window holding a glowing flicker. The brightness provided the three men with enough visibility to navigate the crossing.

Norse guards patrolled the length of the island Eilean Bàn, yet their progress was unabated up to the short swim onto the shores of the small inlet. With swift stealthiness, the three made quick work of the thin guard upon the island. Little to no sound was heard, above a muffled attempt to call for help.

Kjarnac held a small, curved knife aloft, ready to sprint at a moment's notice, teeth clenched. Jhojan moved slowly along the stone pathway, keeping to the parapet, crouching. Geàrr was a confident waterman; he took to the shallows in such a way as to minimize the ripples his movements created.

A pair of guards moved down the shore, attention focused on returning to the castle. From their conjecture, they had decided to cut the night watch short, “there are a few mugs of mead with my name on them,” one of the men said in the Norse tongue, “besides, I see no threats beyond the garrison at Eilean Donnain, they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

Geàrr stole the chance to look at Jhojan, who returned his look with surprise at their luck. Kjarnac jumped on the opportunity, taking no time to cross the distance. He caught the two guards in mid-stride, felling them without allowing them a moment of response. Both men dropped, and Kjarnac dragged them both to the water's edge and sent them adrift.

Regrouping, blood stains covered his face; Kjarnac wanted to traverse the town and hug the coastline until reaching the castle.

Jhojan offered a more straightforward route; there was a farm to the southwest of their position, and they could cross the fields and use the rugged terrain to maintain their cover. Geàrr offered to go first, having intimate knowledge of livestock and how to prevent any alarm by frightening the animals.

They had used two of the remaining three hours left before the primary Scottish host was to depart the garrison at Eilean Donnain. They chose to split up. Kjarnac would move through the village; he had a determined demeanor and would not relent.

Geàrr and Jhojan were going to use the highland terrain to their advantage; the two groups were to meet at the small alcove to the south of the castle.

Quick as night, Kjarnac moved through the trees in the direction of town. Geàrr and Jhojan moved with similar gusto, finding the irrigated waterway north of the town and following it to the uninhabited parts of the surrounding area. A highland coo mooed as they passed, to which Geàrr responded with a whispered “over here, bull.”

The animal quieted down, hoofbeats moving off in a direction away from them.

There was a small campfire along the ridgeline, and about its ring of light sat a half dozen men. Geàrr moved up along the higher ground to the north, using the trees as cover. Jhojan moved south, staying low in the grasses. He wanted to get their attention to remove any thought of Geàrr behind them.

Popping up from the taller grasses, Jhojan walked into the campfire light and announced himself as a seiðmaðr. A single soldier of the six moved in such a way, caution at the forefront, removing himself from an imagined line of fire, knocking an arrow. The largest of the six stood, face visible in the firelight, and with a look of disbelief sauntered towards the mage.

“Prove it, wizard. Turn my water to wine,” he growled in the Nordic tongue and held out his waterskin.

Knowing full well his talents lay in traversing time and space, with limited abilities to lift objects and levitate, this sort of magic was reserved for more specialized arcane masters. Therefore, Jhojan responded with a simple Sami tribal response, offering to read his future.

Laughing the whole group, including that one Norseman who had initially reacted out of fear during the first interaction, the big man took another step towards Jhojan.

“Alright, wizard. Tell me, what does the future hold for me?” Having spent time with the Sami, Jhojan knew that a drum was essential to any ritual or spellwork.

Jhojan then spoke Norse, transitioning between languages, “I only require a drum, a smaller one would be preferable.”

The large man ordered the men to seek out a drum, to which the last known location of such an instrument was to be found within the castle itself. Jhojan used this new piece of information to his advantage: “Let us travel together. I will give each of you a reading.”

Instead, the big man, sensing trickery, ordered one of his men to travel to the castle and to bring a drum back with him. “You will stay here with us, make yourself comfortable, wizard.”

After what seemed an eternity, the large Norseman grew impatient, “Where is that useless Amlóði?”

Jhojan caught sight of Geàrr, who gave a hand gesture across his throat; it appeared the drum courier would be unable to make his delivery.

Anger fueled the large Viking; the commanding officer of the contingent decided to leave a pair of men on watch, while he and the final two men would travel to the castle to check on the man who'd been sent earlier.

“Come, wizard, let us hasten the conclusion of this farce,” growled the commanding officer, his patience had worn out.

Carefully picking his way around the fire ring, Jhojan walked beside the large Viking, a man to the front and behind. They moved at a casual march; the Norse soldiers had become weary since the disappearance of their comrade.

“Fool got himself hurt out here, more than likely.” The Norse commander continued to vent his frustration, “Now we have to come out here and rescue him from whatever he’s done to himself.”

A muffled call came from somewhere in the night, then died away just as suddenly. The company of four froze in place, taking in their surroundings. Jhojan turned to view behind them, peering out to the defensive position, and noticed that both lookouts were missing from the firelight.

The rear guard had poor vision because he gazed back as well, but raised no alarm. The large Viking commander drew out an axe; his companions drew their weapons as well. A whooshing met their hearing before a large sword met flesh, dropping the big man to his knees.

Not missing a beat, Jhojan took hold of a pair of throwing knives and dispensed with the final two guards. Geàrr stood up and out from behind a bush, revealing his location to his friend.

“What if you had missed?” Jhojan jested.

“Ha,” Geàrr laughed in response, retrieving his claymore from the chest of the large Norseman.

The two of them took a moment to look towards the village. There were homes on fire, and the resulting chaos had the villagers moving about in haste. In response, the castle was evacuated, and Norse soldiers spilled out of the fortress, rushing to aid the town in extinguishing the burning structures.

Seeing this, Jhojan rushed to the castle, knowing the basement housed the kitchens and servants’ quarters, so he headed downstairs. Geàrr stood at the top of the stairway, guarding against anyone moving in or out. Immediately, Jhojan ran into the head cook, who spoke Gaelic. He was of the Mackinnon clan; his ancestor married the Norse princess of legend. “I have some stories for you about her, when time allows for such things," He said in jest.

Having made friends with the servants, all that was left was dealing with the garrisoned Viking militants. Returning to the top of the stairs, Jhojan found Geàrr stooped but watchful.

“No movement since you descended the stairs,” the Highland Innkeeper said, “nor sound of anyone in the upper rooms.”

From the darkness came Kjarnac, “that should keep them busy until the main host arrives,” he chuckled with a vitriolic note.

“You seem to enjoy this type of work,” Jhojan said, recovering his composure after being startled by the third of their company. Geàrr, on the other hand, acted as if he had seen his fellow Scotsman approach.

“We should secure the castle, then prepare for those soldiers to come back,” Geàrr said.

Kjarnac and Jhojan agreed; they would investigate the upper floors, while Geàrr would watch the front gate, which had yet to be closed. There were a handful of guards posted atop the castle; each corner held a turret bastion. As they reached the top floor, Kjarnac and Jhojan drew their swords.

From below, Geàrr heard the clash of steel, then moments later a stillness. The quiet was so absolute, not even a cricket dared breathe. There had been little movement outside, but from his vantage point, Geàrr could see the marching column of the Scottish main force moving across the Kyle.

Birlinns were sent ahead, along with a small contingent of men. Arriving ashore, they assailed the castle, swords drawn, until they found Geàrr standing guard. Thankful, the commander grasped his fellow Scotsman by the arm, “It’s good to see you, and that you have met with success,” was all he said.

Jhojan and Kjarnac descended from the floors above, their faces red-stained, but none of the blood was of their own.

“Floors above are clear,” they relayed to the commander Mackenzie, who declared the castle taken in the name of the King of Scotland, Alexander III.

A cheer rose, a signal to the rest of the Scottish forces to push forward. Across the Loch, orders were given to move with haste as the castle had been taken, to which Kjarnac swept off into the night.

“Well done,” Mackenzie said, Gaelic thick as Geàrr’s, “mission complete, get a meal in you and rest a while.”

The incoming night was covered in thick grey clouds; not a single star shone. The pitch darkness was uncanny as the main Scottish force marched in a column, heading north before curving westward to the Kyle, crossing over to the small island of Eliean Bàn, and before daybreak, they reached the town of Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye. The infantry then pushed into the heart of the isle.

Jhojan and Geàrr, after eating a hearty evening meal, had been posted on night watch, to which not a stir touched the evening air about the castle. In the silence, the moving water provided a rhythmic backdrop to a quiet so absolute that a cricket’s song was loud in contrast. Off in the distance, chaos reigned, fires sprouted from thatch-roofed houses, accompanied by the sounds of battle and the clashing of steel.

A few moments later, the pattering of footsteps got rhythmically louder as more Scottish infantry moved onto the castle grounds. They were not alone; other sets of troops were sent on missions unannounced to Jhojan or Geàrr, as the night's stillness granted the ability to hear with clarity, unfiltered soundwaves unhindered by the radiation from the sun’s daylight.

The onslaught was relentless. The pair could pick out the movement of dozens of regiments in the early morning hours. The Scottish forces took the isle without much of a fight; King Haakon’s forces were routed and pushed onto their ships docked in the northern region of the Isle.

The following morning, after the first military actions took place, Geàrr took out a kettle and placed it just above a small cookfire he’d built during the night. Jhojan stood nearby, trails of smoke coming to an end as the contents of his Shireman’s a burned in totality.

Their assignment remained to hold the castle.

Geàrr and Jhojan sat watching the skyline turn from pitch dark to progressively lighter, followed by various shades of blue. They’d been working on the blood that had crusted upon their blades.

They had executed their mission so that it had been a quick fight to take the castle; the swiftness of their actions had given them the element of surprise.

They could now see the castle Eilean Donnain across the water, far to the east. The sun’s light illuminated the fortress, and a Scottish flag that flew from atop its tallest tower.

Castle Dunakin also raised the royal Scottish banner; a feeling of being at the start of something world-changing overcame the moment.

Drifts of smoke wafted from the wizard’s pipe after he'd renewed the contents. Jhojan had been prepared to be at the front lines; now, hearing the stories of brutality from those returning from the offensive, he felt a sense of being spared.

“You know this will be a point of provocation, don’t you?” Geàrr spoke while stoking the coals beneath the warming kettle. “Haakon IV isn’t going to take this lightly; you bet your marbles. They’ll be coming with their armies across the North Sea there.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have the ocean take a few ships down?” Jhojan responded, now seated, looking towards the castle across the water; the higher the sun rose into the sky, the more detail became clear on the stones of the fortress, as if someone was drawing in the final touches on a work of art. There was a sort of magic to the subtle strokes upon the canvas of the world; he was taking in something special at that moment, yet, after so much death, beauty was still all around, standing defiant in the face of such darkness.

Geàrr said, “There’s a sight you don’t see every day: the sun’s shining through that canopy of grey.”

He smirked after that last bit; Jhojan chuckled, having jested about the big man’s abilities in poetry oration many times over the years. They shared a warm bowl of soup before stationing themselves just outside the outreaches of town, regulating any movement between the castle and residential areas. The day was a stale, humid, and cold one; the sun had yet to reach their location for longer than an hour.

Horses bearing the King’s standard rode north, up the hardened path upon the isle, to deliver a dispatch to the royal forces stationed there. For a moment, Jhojan slipped into a thought about how Alexander II would have felt about such a victory.

The late king sought counsel in similar actions to regain the western Isles; an ovate and druid troupe had joined him as his army moved across the Highlands. Jhojan had been a part of the guild before deciding to take a wanderer's path; he had no knack for teaching, and the night of King Alexander II’s death was the exact moment he decided to take the new pathway.

His agelessness made it difficult for him to stay in one place, for the townsfolk would become aware of his immortal regenerative biology if he waited too long. The guild knew he’d been tutored by the great Merlin and attributed his supernatural abilities to the magics shared during those lessons. It was a natural stepping stone for mages to leave the guild and form new circles or explore the world.

After the legendary wizard passed, Jhojan found himself in the Highlands of Scotland, in dense forests full of green, thick underbrush, and sheltering upper tree growth. He’d spend hours listening to the sounds of the forests and the creaking of the trees, each with unique sounds as they swayed in the winds blowing. Till the day he met a family on the north side of Loch Lochy, he’d acted as a passerby but slowly began a friendship. Geàrr’s ancestors eventually built the inn on the southeastern banks of that same Loch, which still stands all these years later.

A messenger came running, having broken off from the king's parade. As he came near, he slowed to a walk just before the checkpoint. Word of King Haakon’s military build-up had come from scouts across the North Sea. He was amassing a large fleet of ships and loading them with troops, supplies, and various other resources. Geàrr and Jhojan waved him through just as a memory flashed to the surface of the ancient man’s mind.

A horseman had ridden past the Callanish stones just before he zapped out of the third dimension, traveling along spacetime, before reaching a place he’d described as so sublime that he thought he’d died.

On the southwest coast, a natural harbor was nestled beneath a rock wall that redirected any wind. To the north, a lush wetland on an eastern sloping hillside that fell into the sea. Beaches greeted the salty waters, where crystal-clear water pooled under the shadow of a large, dome-shaped mountain that dominated most of the eastern territories; a thick forest lay at the southern slopes of the mountain.

Geàrr snapped him out of his trance, “If you continue to do that, I will just leave you in that state one of these times,” he said to the ageless man. Good-naturedly, he threw a light punch that landed on the ageless man’s shoulder, “What did you see, anyway?”

“It was the first time anyone had visited a special place on a planet in the stars. The traveler spoke of the tranquility, similar to what you experience at the inn,” was Jhojan’s response. He’d just about slipped back into a daydream about the island before something caught his eye in the waters to the north. A flag bearing a yellow-crowned lion with an axe upon a red background flapped from the uppermost mast of the approaching ships; the Viking ships seemed disinterested on the beaches of the Isle of Skye and continued heading south in the direction of Loch Alsh.