Brian MacMillan


BM Ithilæn


Ithilæn is the first book of an historical fantasy trilogy that examines the moral struggles of characters from Hindu, Buddhist, Christian, Islamic, Jewish, Zoroastrian, pagan and pop-culture traditions. The trilogy consciously, though not polemically, challenges the glorification of mediaeval warfare and class structure.

Because this trilogy is about interactions between archetypes I hope the reader will understand why it must have a Ring of Power. The Ring I introduce is Alexander’s Bane, the very ring Alexander the Great used to conquer this alternate world. Like the King of Angmar’s ring in Lord of the Rings it is corrupting, but it is not all powerful. It can also kill its bearer.

The story occurs between 1199 and 1212 AD during the wars between John 1 of England and Philip Augustus of France. It is set primarily, although not exclusively in the County of Ithilæn, a fictional demesne within the actual Duchy of Mortain, in north-central France.

The cover painting is by Carolyn Livingston, the cover artwork is by Douglass Ridgeway at

Chapter 1: Riders from the East

Eleanor looked out over the valley of the River Ithil. The river flowed south-east, to her right, through a knot of blue hills, beyond which it joined the turbulent Andwin, and emptied into the Loire near Angers. The flood plain was a field of wheat that stretched to both horizons, the River’s banks were vineyards dotted with villeins paying their labor duty. Immediately around her, throughout the Château lawns, other peasants were working under the direction of a dozen journeymen to construct stages and tents for next Sunday’s wedding. Normally on such beautiful days the villeins were lethargic. But it had been a long winter and most were happy to be moving in the sun, even if today only their Lady profited from their labor.

A cloud of dust appeared on the south-east side of the plain, on the Toulouse road. Eleanor had been waiting for this: the Bactrians had arrived. She signaled for her Marshall to mobilize the Home Guard.

The flood plain of the Ithil is famously wide where it joins the Andwin, so it took the better part of the morning for the cloud of dust to resolve into a cohort of knights, followed by a wake of retainers, pack animals, wagons and a rear-guard of mounted archers.

The Bactrians disappeared into the Arden glade, a hunting forest which followed the River from the ruins of Os Gilieth to the Bridge of Cuts. When they re-emerged they marched in single file, leading their horses by thin metallic reins. They were followed by a flock of madly cawing black birds of a type not found in the Duchy of Mortain. The birds wheeled as if possessed, their screeches harshly dissonant in the calm afternoon air. Even if she had not understood the birds’ language, Eleanor could have inferred meaning from the terror in their cries. The birds were warning the world of the approach of a great evil.

The Bridge of Cuts was guarded by a cylindrical brick tower defended by ten archers. The Bactrians stopped marching in front of it, but did not relax their guard, nor begin to raise a camp. The Bactrian leader, accompanied by twelve knights in light armor, six men and six women, approached the closed barred metal gate, which controlled access to the bridge. The gate opened with the sound of metal on metal before the Bactrians had a chance to even greet the gatekeepers: the Lady had already given instructions for them to be let through although she knew that even a small party of these people could overwhelm her Home Guard.

The Chamberlain, who was seated beside Eleanor, leaned over and said in a quiet but insistent voice, “Disarm them.” He gave his advice like an order, as he always did with women. She looked at him in disbelief. He was a florid fat knight. Despite the weather, he wore a heavy crimson velvet cape, lined with ermine and trimmed with a sable collar. She looked for signs of deceit, but he was not hiding anything. The fool, she thought. He has no idea they are haffen-aelf. She said, “They will not let us disarm them and I am certain they mean me no harm. Escort their leader and his entourage onto the verge.”

“Very good.” It was always very good to the Chamberlain. He was Duke John’s man so his job was to spy and undermine and redirect, but never directly to oppose. He rose and shuffled over to the Captain of the Home Guard, a pious yet violent Christian named Constantine, who was probably a follower of the Christian fanatic Durand. Two pages, twins from the de Blois family, attended him.

Eleanor said nothing as the Chamberlain ordered a company of archers to fall into line behind the soldiers, trying both to defend against the Bactrians, should they attack, and to keep the rapidly growing crowd of on-lookers off of the manicured lawn. Eleanor was glad that her soldiers looked sharp in their green, black and white uniforms; unfortunately their pomp and discipline distracted her for but a moment. She waited for the Bactrians with great fear. No, she thought. The fear wasn’t hers. The Bactrians brought it with them.

The moment the Bactrian leader, a tall gaunt man with wavy black hair, a groomed beard, and mithraël gray eyes, stepped foot on the near side of the River Ithil she heard a voice in her head,

The children of Ailronde and Galadraël are pleased to meet you, Arwen’s youngest.

Who are you, Knight?

I am Dmitrius of the House Euthydemus, Ailronde’s eldest surviving son in Middle Earth. I am nephew of the Emperor Seleucus Nicator, and last King of the Bactrians.

Welcome cousin. Approach with your entourage.

The Bactrians spread out around the hedgerow that demarcated the beginning of the Château grounds. They were all tall, lank, muscular and alert, varying mainly in the color of their hair, skin and eyes. They wore light, polished mithraël armour. Even their hands were protected by light mail. Despite looking like they had fought in dozens of battles, or more accurately like people who had never known peace, none of the knights had visible scars; and their skin was soft and blemishless.

The Chamberlain, who was now hovering to Eleanor’s right, rose solemnly, floated across the lawn toward Dmitrius, his swift small steps hidden by his cloak’s fur trim. As he did so, a company of crossbowmen from the Home Guard prepared their weapons.

The Bactrian leader walked slowly and silently onto the lawn, and stopped directly in front of the Chamberlain. The crowd of villeins and craftsmen was barely held back by knocks from the cudgels wielded by the Lady’s foot soldiers. The soldiers were dressed in leather jerkins on which were painted images of a white cat with green eyes, the sigil of House Arwen. The crowd’s chatter was incessant, insistent, but not loud.

A spring on an Ithilæn archer’s crossbow broke with a loud, metallic twang, causing a bolt to fly askew toward the foreign knights. One of them, a fine-boned woman from the upper Nile, flung a grappler at the arrow, knocking it to the ground before the Chamberlain. The Lady shouted, “Lower your bows”. Her archers obeyed, though many looked to the Chamberlain for a countermanding order before they did so.

The Chamberlain retained his poise but was shaken. While he considered what to do next the Lady gathered her linen skirts and rose with the earnest assistance of two attendants, the slender, nervous niece of Burgundy and a vain, forgettable maid of France. The Lady, who was now beside the Chamberlain, spoke in a loud voice to both the Bactrians and her people, “Welcome stranger. My name is Eleanor, the Lady Ithilæn. My liege Lord is Duke John of Mortain. I am cousin of two kings, Philip Augustus of France and Richard of England. This man” she nodded to the Chamberlain, “is Edwin de Broos. He is my Chamberlain, though is sworn to my Lord not to me. “And this man”, she motioned to the scarred, gaunt soldier to her left, “is Sir Alain de Caen, my Marshall”.

Dmitrius bowed to the Lady and her men. The Chamberlain acknowledged the bow with a slight nod of his head, the Marshall’s bow was deeper and more respectful; Eleanor responded with a shallow curtsy.

To the surprise of all, the Bactrian Knight turned his back to the Lady and addressed her people in Frankish. The crowd, despite the vigilance of the Home Guard, had now pushed well on to the verge, so many were within arms length of him and reached out to touch him, as if he were a saint. He said in a loud voice, “My name is Dmitrius Eucratides of the House of Euthydemus. I am also called Aniketos. I am a great hero.” The Chamberlain scoffed quietly to himself as the Bactrian spoke these words, but the crowd murmured with excited awe. The Marshall stepped forward to hear better.

Dmitrius walked along the front of the crowd, graceful and lithe despite his armor. As he moved, he removed two trophies that were attached to his belt, which he displayed to the crowd, and then presented to Eleanor with a flourish: a sword and a bloodied bag. Though the spring afternoon was clear and fair, and the air clean and warm there was a force that surrounded the Knight, an evil hum that beat the air around him.

Suddenly, Eleanor was deafened by a blast of unheard noise and blinded by a vision of flames and brimstone. The Marshall, who stood to her left, caught her when she swooned. The harsh grip of his thick right hand sent a jolt of pain up her arm and brought her back to her senses. He eyed her quizzically. “Thank you” she whispered breathlessly. She anxiously surveyed the scene while she steadied herself. No one else had noticed her swoon. All eyes were fixed on the Bactrian hero, who had removed a dessicated head from the filthy leather bag attached to his waist. It was still wearing an iron crown, which was studded with tiny blue diamonds that sparkled like water in the bright afternoon light. There was one giant blue sapphire above the brow, a tribute to the Sky God, above which was placed a thin gold crescent.

A craven force reached out to her and implored. Take me. Kill the Bactrian and take me. Do you see me? I am hanging from his neck. Take me. I will give you total power.

Eleanor looked at the neck of the Bactrian Knight and noticed a tiny gold ring attached to a thin necklace of beaten mithraël.

Take me. Kill him.

While Eleanor resisted the Ring’s temptation, the Bactrian leader shouted, “Behold the head of the Tyrant, who I killed to save Christendom.”

The crowd, in unreflective obedience to authority knelt as Dmitrius paraded the grotesque trophy in front of them. Even though the head had been severed several years previously it was still animated. Its teeth chattered and it constantly strived toward the ring hanging from Dmitrius’ neck. When the peasants saw the chattering head, they fell back in terror, anxiously making the sign of the cross and averting their eyes, while monks and priests urgently pressed to the front of the crowd with raised crosses.

Put the head away.

Dmitrius acknowledged the Lady’s thought, and returned the chattering head to its leather bag, and carefully attached it to his belt, where it continued to slowly rock. Even in death the Tyrant was in thrall to the Ring.

Dmitrius picked up the trophy sword and turned to face the Lady. The Chamberlain began to speak, but the Bactrian spoke loudly and drowned him out. He shouted, “Eleanor of Ithilæn, I and my men have come to pledge fealty to you!”

Kill him, take me, the Ring implored.

With effort, Eleanor ignored the Ring and assessed the Bactrian forces: one cohort of knights and two of archers, enough troops to secure her County against all but the greatest Lords, perhaps even Duke John. She let her eyes settle on their leader, the deposed King Dmitrius of the House Euthydemus, and saw a future of loyalty, love, temptation and danger. She smiled. At this, the Chamberlain, who had been fuming beside her said, “Lady, these men belong to Duke John, not to you.” He had to pitch his voice quietly so the crowd could not hear him. This provided Lady Ithilæn with an excuse to ignore him. She turned her attention to the Bactrian leader and said as loudly as she could,

“So be it fallen King! Swear allegiance and I will give you land.”

Dmitrius bent his knee and handed the Lady Ithilæn his sword. Across the river the Bactrian Knights dismounted and mimicked their lord’s action, generating only a light clatter, despite their metal armor and weapons.

Eleanor looked at the crowd of villeins and townsfolk. It became silent under her gaze.

Dmitrius spoke his vow in a quiet but deep voice that could be heard across Château grounds and to the far side of the Ithil. He said,

“I pledge to become your liege-man, bearing to you against all that love, move or die, defending you in matters of life and limb, and eschewing earthly honor in favor of all that promotes light and fights darkness. Never will I, nor my people, bear arms for anyone against you.”

Eleanor picked up the sword by its pommel, which was adorned with a stone carving of a sapling silver birch tree. She looked from the sword to the Bactrian leader, tapped him lightly on either shoulder, and then spoke, “We will it and we grant it. Be it so!” She turned her back to her knights and faced her people, to whom she said in Frankish, “Fehu-ôd Os Gilieth”. The Bactrian fief would be the cursed abandoned town of Os Gilieth, at the edge of old Ithilæn.

Eleanor gestured for the Bactrian Knights to rise. As they did so the crowd erupted in cheers. De Broos looked troubled and ill. The Marshall was solemn, though quietly pleased by the unexpected doubling of his Lady’s, and therefore his own, power. The Lady moved so close to Dmitrius that they nearly touched. She could feel his body’s heat. She said while handing him his trophy sword, “Take this. I have no need for it.” Dmitrius stopped her with an upraised hand and said solemnly. “I insist.” He placed his mailed hands around hers and pushed the sword into her bosom.

As he did so, the sword spoke to her. I am glad you have accepted me, Eleanor daughter of Arwen. I will serve you well.

What is your name, sword?


A Greek name? But you are more ancient than the Greeks.

I have fought against evil since before the Age of Heroes.

But you are a trophy taken from the dead hands of the Tyrant.

I have also been captured by evil in three Ages. That is why I am glad to serve you. You are good.

I do not need a sword. I have soldiers.

You will need me, and I will protect you.

How is it that a weapon can predict the future?

I can predict the future because I am a weapon. There will be war. There always is.

If you were a hammer would you predict nails?

I only make predictions about human nature, not my own.

The Lady handed the sword to her attendant, a niece of Hainault named Celeste Innocente, who was dressed in an expensive velvet dress, trimmed with Bretagne lace. The girl reluctantly let the edge of Eleanor’s gown fall to the ground in order to receive it. Eleanor, when she turned her back to her attendant, noticed de Broos looking at the sword covetously.

Celeste said, “Shall I place this sword with your heirlooms or in the armory, mi’lady?”

“Place it in my chambers, on the table by my bed. The one made of oak wood.”

The girl curtsied and left.

Eleanor turned to the Bactrian forces, which now lined the far shore of the River, and addressed them with her thoughts Welcome cousins.

The Bactrians raised their swords and cheered. The crowd joined in. In the racket few noticed the approach of Duke John along the Normandy Road. His small, ragged army had been fighting the Capetians near Alençon. Eleanor noticed, but her focus never strayed for more than one moment from the Ring of Power hanging from the neck of Dmitrius Euthydemus.