by Billy Wong
Blood of Kings
by Billy Wong
Blood of Kings
Copyright © 2013 Billy Wong
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.
All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Credits and author page
Chapter 1
The panting young woman swung her flail overhand, striking the dragon on its nose. It hissed in pain but butted her with its snout, slamming her back against the wall of the flooded cave. A mighty bellow rattled her ears as long jaws parted to unleash death. She sprang aside just in time to avoid the initial blast of fiery breath and ran, keeping just ahead of the flame before diving behind the charred corpse of her horse.
The hulking reptile charged, water splashing beneath its ponderous footsteps. She grabbed the lance from her saddle and waited for its head to pass over her mount, then stabbed up. Sharp steel pierced the underside of its jaw and it reared away, struggling to get free. She pushed hard on the shaft, driving the point deep. Its body twisted violently away, snapping the lance. Then it tumbled down, dead.
Prying a sickle-sized claw out of her rent armor, she aimed a last painful kick at the dragon's remains. "That's what you get for killing my horse, you stupid worm! It cost me a month's earnings to buy that overpriced donkey, and I didn't even get to ride him for a week before you came along!"
Her teenage squire Ares, late of Sparta though not much of a warrior considering his pedigree, walked out from his hiding place near the entrance with two empty sacks in hand. "You did use him as bait, Milady. It's not much of a surprise he's dead."
Mildred Pendragon, outcast knight and illegitimate daughter of King Arthur—Mildy to her friends, Dread Lady to her enemies, and Milady to Ares—brushed back thick brown hair and sighed. "I suppose I'd be less annoyed if that had actually worked. Damn fire breath!"
She had underestimated the reach of the drake's flame, and it'd simply roasted her horse from five paces away. The well-trained mount had gotten no chance to lead it anywhere near the sharpened log trap she'd painstakingly set outside, and she herself barely avoided being cooked.
"This is a total disaster!" she said, spreading her hands. "I've got no horse, no shield"—smashed into useless splinters early during the fight—"no lance, and I'm wounded besides. And what do we have to show for it?"
"We have the treasure horde," he replied, moving towards said pile of assorted riches, "and you're only scratched, right?"
"Do you see a train of servants to carry all this treasure out? And while I may use the word 'scratch' a lot, it's only when I'm trying to brag. Besides, this isn't a scratch by anyone's reckoning." Her armor had saved her a gutting, but her wound was still pretty ugly. The huge claw had pushed part of her undershirt into the gash, and she could only hope she didn't get a serious infection.
Ares scratched at his straw-colored hair as if to quell the lice within. "But we're still rich." When she first met the tall Greek youth, he'd arrived on the south coast of Britannia groomed like to model for the heroic sculptures popular in his own land. Now he was every bit as dirty and unkempt as she, and had even grown something of a beard. But despite the harsh conditions he'd endured at her side, he never stopped seeing life from a hopeful viewpoint. His optimism was a welcome bright spot in Mildy's difficult quest for respect and fame.
Well, they probably would be able to sell what they could carry out of the barrow for a good amount of coin. But all the items she'd lost to win it would cost a considerable sum to replace. She wished he would finish packing quickly, as the marsh cave stank of decay.
"Not rich enough," she muttered.
"You did keep the dragon from eating any more farmers' daughters. Maybe you could get one of those maidens as a reward."
"That's a great point!" She glowered. "Except that I'm a woman, and not attracted to the same."
Ares gulped and sputtered, "Sorry, Milady! I-I was only joking..."
"I know. I was just playing with you." But his jape had hit fairly close to home. After all, while her solid figure was not devoid of feminine curves, they hardly showed through her skull-themed black plate armor. Too, her attractive heart-shaped face was masked by a coat of grime she could never get rid of for long—a byproduct of constant travel and battle, she supposed. "Now let's get a fire started so we can sear my wound."
Once outside, they gathered a small heap of dead brush and sticks with which to fuel a flame. Mildy hissed while Ares removed her armor, cleaned her wound, and put his heated dagger to her side. He winced when he got a good look at the tear in her flesh. "That looks bad."
As if she didn't know that herself; her undershirt was soaked with blood. But at least the wound hadn't hit any vital organs. "I'm fine, just need to sleep it off. You think we can make it to Tintagel if we leave tomorrow morning?"
"Leave? What about the treasure?"
Mildy would have liked to claim it all, but there was no time to return with the needed transport. "We can come back for it later, if no one steals it in the meantime. Right now, we have more important things to worry about."
"What's happening in Tintagel?"
"Tournament, remember?" She groaned as she remembered, "It'll be hell to get there without a horse, and I'm likely to end up riding another throwaway mount during the joust. Some great knight I'm turning out to be."
"You just slew a thirty-foot enemy of God. That's got to mean something, doesn't it?"
"The feat counts for little—even if I bring the thing's very head back for proof, they'll say I cut it off a corpse." The more respectable members of society took every chance to try and discredit Mildy. Even her defeat of Gawain in the last great tourney had largely been dismissed as a fluke, and shortly after her bargain mare died on her. Forced to drop out of the competition prematurely, she'd lost a valuable chance to prove herself against the kingdom's elite. She might've had a better chance this time, if her prize steed hadn't gone up in flames.
"Do you have to go to the tournament? You're hurt."
"Of course I have to. You know how tough it is for me to maintain my hard-earned reputation." What little she had of one, anyway. Even that might easily be lost if anyone thought she'd gone soft. "Besides, like you said it's only a scratch."
"All right. Don't worry, Milady, I'm sure you'll do well. Whatever they say about you, they can't take away the fact you're a great knight!"
She smiled. "I try. Let's go prove those snobs wrong, then!"
#
Ares shook Mildy's shoulder, somewhat guilty about disturbing her sleep. She had lost a lot of blood, and still looked pale. He hoped denying her the extra rest wouldn't do her harm—but then, she'd asked him to wake her early.
"Milady, wake up. We have to get going."
"Did you just call me Mildy?" she asked groggily while she opened
her eyes. "You never do that."
"No, Milady, you must have misheard!"
She looked away and seemed to sigh. "I guess I was just dreaming."
"Are you all right? You look a bit unwell."
"It's a bothersome wound, I'll admit. But it'll hardly kill me. How many more leagues to Tintagel?"
"Twenty."
She sighed, obviously wishing she had a horse, but assured him, "We can make it in time. We just have to push really hard for the next couple days, and we'll get there before the festivities begin."
"We barely made five leagues yesterday."
"We'll have to do better, then."
They continued their journey, Ares admiring Mildy's determination though he doubted she could come close to winning the tournament in her state. Admittedly, it seemed crazy to him for her to insist on competing with her injury—though hardly surprising, as she never showed any qualms about pushing her body to its rather high limits.
Though considerably more reserved than his fearless mentor, Ares was similarly something of an outcast. He had been the black sheep of his family back home, excelling in nothing and regarded to be worthless by his parents and older siblings. So he had decided to come to Britannia to win honor as a knight, only to find himself ill-prepared both physically and mentally even to begin learning that trade. But after every other knight declined to take him under his wing, Mildy had agreed to train him. Though he still often felt weak and useless, he was grateful for the opportunity she'd given him.
In all honesty, the apparent futility of pursuing her personal ambitions had begun to wear on him. But he continued to encourage and support her the best he could, even when it grew difficult to keep a cheerful face. He owed her everything.
Late in the afternoon, they spotted a mounted traveler making his way down the road. Ares noted the young man's bright, gaudy silks and wondered if he was a minstrel or performer, but it was what he led behind him that uplifted his spirit.
"Look, Milady, he's got an extra horse! Maybe you could persuade him to sell it to you."
Nodding, Mildy approached the stranger. "May I purchase your spare mount? I'm in quite a hurry to get to Tintagel, and I've lost my own."
"How much money do you have?"
Not having anything substantial in the way of coin, Mildy showed him the sack she'd filled from the dragon's horde. "Would one of these do?"
"That gold armband looks like it would fetch a good price."
"No! It must be worth at least five of your horse. How about this necklace?"
"Bah, those gems are nothing but cheap quartz. But that circlet looks fine."
They negotiated for several minutes before coming to an impasse. The traveler demanded to be paid at least the silver-rimmed goblet Mildy held, and the half-starved gelding he offered for it was obviously no even trade. So Mildy declined and walked on.
"Milady, you needed that horse! Why didn't you take it?"
"That horse wasn't worth my goblet, and I wasn't about to be cheated."
"Why didn't you just take it by force, then?" Despite the glamorous image knights presented, Ares had seen that many of them certainly weren't above robbing common folk. It sometimes seemed chivalric honor was more about pride than actual morality, and though he generally saw Mildy as a good person, he knew how much the tourney mattered to his mistress.
"No, that would be cruel. What if he needs the money to feed his family?"
"But if you're concerned about that, why didn't you buy the horse?"
"I won't stop him from making a living, but I won't be the sucker he robs, either. I'm poor enough, myself."
1#
They didn't make distance as quickly as Mildy had hoped, in part due to the heavy rain. The downpour turned the roads into rivers of mud early in the evening, and continued through what would have been the last day of the journey. Though they walked on, Mildy's wound throbbing like a stake in her side, it was impossible to avoid being slowed by the elements. She guessed now that she'd be the laughingstock of the field, if she even arrived in time to take part in the games. Maybe she should have bought that horse, unfair trade or not.
But her gloom fled when she saw the glint of an extremely well-polished suit of armor, and immediately recognized its brilliant silver coating. "Lance!" she yelled hoarsely, then cleared her throat and repeated herself loud enough to be heard.
Lancelot du Lac, or Lance as Mildy knew him, groaned in mock exasperation upon spotting her. "You're predictably late. And I thought you wanted to be respectable?"
Mildy ran to catch up to his horse, then waited for him to dismount and hugged him, both of them laughing at his faux animosity. Though nearly two decades older than Mildy, Lance was her closest friend, as close as siblings. They didn't get to see each other nearly enough.
"And you call me late?" she retorted cheerfully. "You're not even at the tourney ground yet, and you have a horse! Though I can tell you've been too busy shining up your armor to think of punctuality."
A bit over forty, golden-haired Lance looked no less than ten years younger, and his dashing persona and immaculate appearance made him the object of many a noble lady's affections. Somewhat oddly, he never responded in more than a courteous way. Though they were best friends, Mildy couldn't help suspecting there might be something queer about his attitude towards women—suspicions heightened after hearing Ares' tales of certain behaviors among the nobility of his land.
"You can never underestimate the important of grooming," Lance said, then noticed the bloody rent in Mildy's armor. "You're wounded."
"Just a scratch. It was only a dragon's claw. Think we could share a ride, though?"
"A dragon's claw! So did you slay it?"
"I have the treasure to prove it."
He patted the back of his aged bay gelding, not quite bearing the weight of years as well as his rider. "Anyway, get on. Old Fleetfoot here can handle you, you little thing."
She didn't consider twelve stone to be that little, when she weighed almost as much as Lance himself. But Sir Lamorak rode a horse, and he was as big as both of them put together. Of course, his mount was gigantic too. Still, tall Fleetfoot should be able to hold out for a short ride. Climbing up behind Lance, she beamed, "We're going to make it!"
"We can't all fit up there," Ares reminded her, "so we're not getting there any faster like this."
"Sure we can, if we leave you behind."
He stared. "Milady?"
"You can catch up. We're only, what, four leagues away?"
"But what about bandits and the like?"
Mildy trusted that Ares would be able to take care of himself after all she'd taught him. She smiled and patted him on the head. "You'll be fine. I have to go, alright?"
"You believe in yourself, lad," Lance added.
"Err... okay."
Ares sounded none too confident, and Mildy tried to boost his morale. "Who did you say you were named after again?" she teased with a grin.
"The Greek god of war. But that doesn't mean-"
"Well, I trained you, and I say you have his spirit. So do me proud, and show me you're made of the stuff knights are."
"But Ares is a cowardly god..."
That certainly wasn't the attitude an aspiring knight should have. Mildy urged Lance to go on, leaving him behind. Hopefully, a few hours on the road alone would force a bit more courage into his spine.
A short while later, Lance said, "That wasn't very nice."
Mildy did know how it felt not being confident in your own strength. After all the dire wounds she had taken and battles she'd fought, she had still never been more scared than when she first left the convent to brave the unknown world. But how else could one learn, if not by rising to the occasion?
"Tough love, right?"
"Tough love gets squires killed, when their knights bring them into battle before they're ready."
"He's not in a battle, he's on a road."
"You know what I mean."
She scowle
d behind his back. "I hear the Green Knight will be at Tintagel."
Lance grunted. "That devil never falls off his horse. I bet he's going to win the whole thing."
"There's always a first time."
Elbowing her lightly on her uninjured side, he laughed. "Silly girl. You're far too ambitious for your own good."
"I beat Gawain, and no one thought I could. Not to mention Meleagant." She patted her fearsome armor, taken from the dark warrior after beating him in a roadside challenge and most unexpectedly ridding the kingdom of one of its greatest menaces.
It was that deed which won her a reluctantly granted baronial title from King Arthur, who now seemed to regret it as she used it and a forceful demeanor to get herself into every knightly competition she could. If only it had been fatherly concern, and not fear for his knights' reputations, which inspired that regret.
"Well, you're just lucky," Lance said.
Mildy playfully raised her chin, taking on a haughty air. "No, I'm King Arthur's daughter. He had a great destiny and so did his father—why not me?"
"Because you're not his real daughter, maybe?" Even her best friend didn't believe that one.
"Like I care what you say. I am Arthur's daughter, and my deeds will prove it!"
"Right. Maybe if you found the Holy Grail. But don't you know that even if he acknowledges you, you'll still be a bastard?"
"Yeah, but he has no heirs. Maybe he'd take me under his wing." Besides, she would have no purpose if she abandoned her goal.
Lance looked back at her. "And just who do you say is your mother, if you are his child?"
Unable to answer, Mildy sat there in silence. At last, she figured out what she should say. "A faerie!" she joked.
Chapter 2
They arrived together to mixed cheers and jeers—cheers for Lance, jeers for Mildy—at the tourney grounds, the next event already close to beginning as they hurried to the waiting area. They'd already missed the archery, spear-throwing, ring-spearing, boxing, and wrestling competitions, and Mildy still didn't have a horse. But procuring one could wait, for the joust was the final event.