“I suppose there is a reason for this, Bard?” Bryn’s assessing gaze held accusation. His greying hair was kept back from his face by a simple thong. He looked so much more the true Briton than Dai although his blood was mixed with Roman and every corner of the Empire. “Up at the crack of dawn, dogs and full detail. Looking for a girl you have sleeping under your own roof?”
Dai tightened his lips into a straight line.
“Are we not all good men of Britannia?”
Bryn’s expression changed.
“So your pet praetorians…?”
“Should be doing their job – as you do yours, Investigator Cartivel.”
“That is merda,” Bryn spat in the grass. Beside him were three of his team piloting short-range drones to scan the surrounding area. It was their second stop and they had four more to make to cover the area Logan had suggested.
“I prefer to call it ‘the truth’,” Dai said, shielding his eyes against the autumnal sun to watch one of the drones.
“Ah, so we have sunk so low as that. Next it’ll be justice and then where will we be.” Bryn sucked in his cheeks as if something tasted sour. “It is strange, because I was thinking it is more about you dressing up lies in gladrags. I was also thinking it means you are walking into the line of fire without any back up because you don’t want to let anyone else take that kind of risk.”
Dai glanced at him, but Bryn was staring out over the bucolic landscape as if that was all that held his attention.
“You don’t know-”
“I know when you are being a stubborn, stiff-necked, pure-blooded Celtic spado.”
Dai shook his head and sighed.
“Do you think I could face your Gwen if anything happened to you through me?”
“She’d be sure to put a curse on you,” Bryn agreed and looked back at Dai. “But I didn’t move out here away from the bright lights of Londinium and into the wonders of rural Britannia just to watch roses growing and sip mead. And my Gwen knows that. Besides, she’d take it ill if I started hanging around the house and pruning just yet.”
For a moment, Dai tried to marshal all the arguments he had been rehearsing since the previous afternoon. But as he met Bryn’s gaze they all retreated, broke and ran for cover. So, instead, he smiled and felt a sudden deep gratitude, together with something that could even have been relief.
“Well, we are both good men and good Britons, it would not be fair of me to keep you from your chance to join the cause.”

From Dying for a Poppy by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

Jack was a soulless parasite who specialised in marrying lonely middle-aged women. His latest fiancée was a satisfactorily wealthy soul whose adoration he enjoyed almost as much as her money.

When she wasn’t at the front door to greet him, he called her name. There was no reply, only a single drip, drip. 

Thinking of plumbing he looked upwards only to be hit in the face by a splatter of blood from the partially decapitated body hanging over the banister.

He screamed and ran.

Into the arms of his last but one wife. 

Who had found him.

At last…

©jj 2022

What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted…

“Well, yes, you are right,” the unknown woman said, treating Cista Tyran to a condescending smile. “That was one of the less salubrious acquaintances Kahina achieved in her long career. And interestingly, that also brings us to the project which led to her downfall: Future Data — a predictive behaviour suite which was indeed highly promising in its early trials, but fell down so badly in the final real-world field test that those working on it renamed it ‘Futile Data’.”
She stopped, no doubt expecting laughter, then went on quickly when none came.
Perhaps, thought Grim, that kind of thing had them rolling in the aisles at political conventions. Would explain a lot about politicians if so. He listened politely as the woman explained how Future Data, in which a large amount of public money had been invested, had not only been shown to be faulty, but Kahina herself had contrived to mask the failings by some increasingly desperate measures, even eventually employing a hit man to try to make her predictions come true. Though who she had been targeting was unknown.
Now that little gem was not something that had come out in the trial.
Grim stirred slightly, his professional interest tweaked. This was his field of expertise.
“Do we know who she hired?” The woman smiled at him as she might at a very junior journalist asking an unnecessary question at an unwanted press-conference, a smile that was cold, impersonal and put upon. Enough to convince Grim that this was not a topic on which she wanted to share.
“A man called Archanbor Drummer, I believe, but it isn’t relevant to this briefing.”
Grim nodded and let it go. He knew someone who could tell him if Archanbor Drummer, a.k.a The Drum, had taken on any work in the last couple of years. He was just surprised that news of The Drum making another kill had not filtered through his grapevine at the time. It was the kind of thing that should have auto-qualified for the top line of his personal alternative newsfeed.

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.

Writing made easy – if you don’t mind the bumps!

The wit, wisdom, joy and frustration of a writer’s life summed up in limericks…

Be a person you are not they said
It will help with the words in your head
Be a pirate or hero
A genius or zero
But I sniffled and went back to bed

Jane Jago

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

She picked up the little ghost in the hospital mortuary. It was barely more than a toddler and had been so severely brutalised in life that it couldn’t find any way forward.

When she beckoned, it came, with loneliness furrowing its insubstantial brow.

“There’s room for a small one,” she smiled and it hopped on board quickly as if afraid she might change her mind.

When they touched, the little creature’s loneliness brought her as close to tears as she was able to be.

“Can we find him?”

“I think we can, and you shall watch me drink his blood.”

©jj 2022

The tale of a bold knight, a valiant steed, an innocent maiden and a cunning dragon…

The voice in Barney’s head was a thought breathless. “The old bastard likes a head shot. Can you trust me enough to sit absolutely still and let go of your lance at my word?”
“I can.”
“Right. Couch your lance.”
Barney did as he was bid, although he couldn’t help noticing that the king was a giant of a man astride a horse that made Salazar look like a Shetland Pony. The lance pointing unerringly at his eyes bore a barbed head, and if it hadn’t been for his trust in Salazar’s wisdom, Barney rather thought he might have either soiled his underwear, or fainted. Or both. Just as he though the king’s lance might be about to take off his head, Salazar swerved subtly towards the oncoming juggernaut, and the point of the king’s lance bypassed Barney’s helmet and went over his right shoulder. Even His Majesty wasn’t strong enough to keep a hold of a lance that was being dragged away by his opponent’s body. As soon as the king let go of his weapon Salazar spoke.
“Fumble your lance now.”
Barney allowed his lance to fall to the ground and spoke urgently.
“Salazar. Could you possibly come up lame right about now?”
“Oh yes. Very good. Why did I not think of that. I come up lame and we have to retire. His Majesty wins and everyone is happy.”
As soon as Barney felt the big horse begin to favour his right foreleg he started waving his arms as theatrically as possible. He took off his helmet and sat bareheaded in the late afternoon sunlight. Salazar turned around slowly, and as though in pain. The king, mounted on his land leviathan, came to where they waited. He removed his golden helm and spoke formally.
“Do you say you cannot carry on, sir knight?”
Barney bent his head and hoped his mouth wouldn’t get him into trouble.
“I do so aver, my liege. The noble beast upon whose back I ride has somehow incurred injury at the lists, and I would not cause further pain to him by continuing. I cede this contest to the better man.”
He felt Salazar’s approval, so assumed he must have got the thing approximately right.
The king threw back his head and laughed long and loud. Then he stroked his coarse black beard with one huge hand. “Very well, I accept your offer and retire from the lists undefeated.” He turned his horse and headed for the largest and gaudiest of the pavilions where a female figure in a brightly purple dress stood holding a gauzy scarf in her hands. She looked a bit odd to Barney, at one second she was as beautiful and carefree as a May morning, the next dumpy and hard of feature and pushing out of her gown in much the manner of a sausage bursting from its skin.
“Don’t look,” Salazar spoke bracingly, “the Lady has some problems with her chosen appearance. She can’t sustain it.”
“No indeed. But now.”
At that point a crowd of servants arrived bringing a portable mounting block. Barney heaved himself to the ground and led the limping stallion back to their own pavilion. While the valets removed Barney’s armour piece by piece the grooms dealt with Salazar’s needs.
Barney was dressed in a loose woollen robe and Salazar sported an unnecessary (but entirely necessary in another sense) bandage on his right hock, when the ‘door’ opened to admit an expensively-dressed middle-aged man with a high-bridged nose – and a high opinion of his own consequence by the way he peered down that nose.
“His name’s Marplot and he’s a sort of a fixer for knights errant. Knows where the dragons and small wars are to be found. You outrank him, so no need to be polite.”
Barney decided that politeness, at least at the outset, was a better notion, but he also thought he should be cool and a bit lofty. Accordingly, he raised one eyebrow at the unannounced visitor and remained seated on the only chair in the tent.
“Ah, Marplot. Do come in. Did I send for you?”
The man looked uneasy. “Umm. No. But the Queen’s Majesty… She… Umm.. Well… She sent me to…”
Then he stopped speaking.
Barney sighed inwardly. He might not have been used to kings and queens and knights and tournaments, but he was an expert in bored wives. He turned his best manly smile on Marplot.
“Thank you. I’m sure you will know precisely what to say to the Queen’s Majesty.”
Marplot looked uneasy. “You don’t seem too worried that she won’t be able to keep your tryst for this evening.”
“It doesn’t,” Barney dropped his voice to a stage whisper, “behove any gentleman to question the word of any lady, leave alone the Queen’s Majesty. So you just trot along and say that Sir Barnabas was, of course, cut to the quick, but he understands that affairs of state must take precedence over affairs of the heart.”

This adventure of Barney and Salazar will continue next week…

His friend told him a huge secret
That could affect her life
She asked him to safely keep it
So he only told his wife

When his wife heard of the sinner
She promised not to tell
Her three closest friends, at dinner
Swore to keep it as well

And each the promise truly kept
Save those they’d trust the most
And all they told were well adept
To keep the secret close

Thus the secret was soon made known
And all around the town
What had been spoken to just one
Was widely spoken now…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dai carefully unfolded the hanging and held it up for Aelwen to inspect. She put her head on one side and her brow drew into tight lines, as if she were a critic appraising the latest offering from an acclaimed artist.
The thing was lovely. From the carefully beaded knotwork pattern that bordered the edge to the gloriously vivid designs. It glittered in the light as the brilliant colours of the glass beads were both muted and set off by the softer metallic looking ones in silver and gold effect.
Satisfied, Aelwen then felt the hem where the carefully placed weights were sewn in disguised by quilting and the braided fringe.
“What are they made of, the weights?”
“In the past we’d have used lead,” Marta told her, but today we use stainless steel.” She reached over to a box and pulled some of the contents out so Aelwen could see. “Here take one.”
Warmed by the spiced tea (a local blend of fourteen fruits, herbs and spices, half-price Saturnalia special and an extra discount for the dominus if he’ll take two packs—so he did), they paid for their purchases. The hanging was wrapped in tissue paper and popped into one of the paper bags that the workshop had printed with their own name and logo (probably onsite, Dai decided), the Llewllyns took their leave.
As Dai was guiding the all wheel out of the gate, he caught sight of Marta, in the rear view, back in the doorway of the workshop and waving enthusiastically. She looked red faced and took a few steps out into the yard. Dai lifted a hand in farewell and a moment later they were around the corner and beginning the precarious descent.
They were about halfway down when Aelwen said, decisively, “I liked that shop and the spiced tea. But not the dogs. And do you think mam will like that hanging?”
“I think she will love it.”
Aelwen smiled then her face fell.
“I wanted some pictures to show where we went to get it.”
Dai heard the tone and knew what the outcome would be, but tried anyway.
“If we go back we’ll be very late, cath fach. And your nain is cooking for you, remember.”
The silence and the drooping head were more than he could bear. Then he saw a pull in a short way ahead, which offered a stunning vista from the zig-zag road. He was already decelerating as he said, “Why don’t we get some pictures of the view here? That would be much more spectacular?”
It was touch and go if the alternative would wash with Aelwen, but maybe the thought of her grandmother’s baking fresh from the oven was enough to sway the balance, because she nodded as Dai parked up.
The wind was cold, but not bitter. Not yet carrying the smell and taste of snow. Instead it brought hints of coal smoke from the hearths of the cottages below, looking like dolls’ houses with toy goats and chickens in the garden. Aelwen fussed around for a couple of minutes like a professional portrait photographer, positioning Dai and getting him to help her with the settings so she could zoom in to show the more distant mountains, capped by cloud.
But they were eventually back in the all wheel and driving back along the narrow mountain road.
Dai didn’t think anything of it when he saw a rugged and long-lived allwheel barrelling up the slope towards them. There were a few isolated farmsteads along potholed tracks which turned off the decently surfaced road. But when it showed no sign of slowing, he silently cursed the arrogance of the locals and their assumption of right of way and aimed his vehicle for the passing place between them.
Incredibly, the allwheel coming up accelerated, almost as if it wanted to cut him off from reaching the wider bit of road. Suddenly aware that he had no other choice to avoid the mad driver, he speeded up too, and for a moment it was as if they were playing a game of chicken. He just pulled out of the way as the other vehicle reached them, but at the last moment it slid and there was a shriek of tortured metal and a scream from Aelwen as the two vehicles graunched together.
Aelwen screamed again and Dai swore, fighting to turn the allwheel back onto the road as the cliffedge approached at a frightening speed.

From Dying for a Present, a Dai and Julia Mystery novella by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

The strawberries are red and sweet
Their bright juice stains his lips with bliss
And when he lays him down, replete
The wanton breeze steals just one kiss

©️jane jago