the Acquisition of Swords (the New Age Saga Book 1)

by Timothy Ray

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, in a rare moment of being the first to speak.

  She rode in silence, her eyes on the approaching forest and the clouds above. Her shoulders slumped and she looked over. “Do you want to marry me?”

  His body froze and his mind blank. “What?”

  She grunted and looked away.

  He couldn’t think of what to say, where the hell did that come from? He pulled back on the reins and brought Dancer to a halt. She kept riding for a few paces before doing the same, refusing to look at him. He nudged the horse closer to hers, coming alongside her.

  “Hey, look at me,” he begged, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder, which she shrugged off. What the hell?

  They sat in silence for a moment, their horses bending over to nip at some stray pieces of grass on the road below. “The way you’ve been acting—I’m not sure you still want to marry me,” she finally responded. He thought he could see a tear sliding down her cheek. “I try to ignore your mood swings, to brush it off and act like everything is okay, but it’s not, is it? Am I fooling myself?”

  His mind was racing, he had no idea where this was coming from and it was making him fumble for something to say. “Of course I want to marry you,” he managed.

  “You don’t have to pretend; it’s just us here,” she returned, a hitch in her throat.

  “I’m not! It’s not you…” he stuttered, trying desperately to find the right words. He hated making her upset, especially when he had no clue about what he did to cause it.

  “It’s not you, it’s me. Is that what you were going to say? Isn’t that what they all say?” she asked and he felt like he got punched in the gut.

  “What who says? I don’t get it,” he inquired, confused. “I want nothing more in this world than you as my wife. You are the only thing that matters to me. My lone torch in the darkness, fighting back the shadows, and bringing your warmth into my life. Don’t ever question that I want to marry you.” He tried to reach out and smooth the tears from her face, but she had turned away as his hand approached and refused to let him touch her. “Willow, seriously.”

  “Seriously what? The entire time I’ve been here you’ve been brooding, constantly irritated, and the one night we spend together you can’t sleep next to me? How do you plan on doing it for the rest of our lives if you can’t handle it for one night? I’m here for three days! And you spend one of them hunting with your brother? Couldn’t you have found time for that after I went back home? Do you not want to spend time with me?” she thundered. Her voice was raised, which was rare, and he felt the barrage of questions slap him with every word she spat.

  How could they have such a magical evening and awaken to this much hostility? “Is this a woman thing?” he blurted without thinking it through.

  The look she gave him chilled his blood.

  “I’m sorry,” he pleaded and lowered his eyes. He could feel the violence in her stare. “I woke up yesterday and felt like I had to escape. That so much was closing in on me that I couldn’t breathe. It had nothing to do with you, but with all the crap that’s going on right now. I didn’t think about it when John asked me to go with him, I just saw a chance to be free of it all for a while. I went with it. I’ve gotten so used to you being here that it never occurred to me that you’d be upset about it.”

  He met her eyes; they were still icy. He was at a loss for words.

  He turned his head and let out a heavy sigh. How could things go to shit so fast? “It’s all this tension floating around the castle, it’s been getting crazier by the day, and I feel panicked almost all the time. I don’t understand how my father and brother handle it all so calmly. I don’t know if I have it in me to do the same. Am I nervous about marrying you? Yes. Not because I don’t want to be your husband, but because of what comes with it. I was raised to be a nothing, and I don’t know how to be a something. It has absolutely nothing to do with you, only my inadequacy to be your father’s heir.”

  It hurt to admit it and he felt a weight shifting in his chest. A hand stroked his cheek and he let his face be turned. Their eyes met. “You do have it in you. I’ve seen it. You are being unfair to yourself,” she comforted softly.

  “This panic I feel, the uneasiness and frustration, how is that a quality of a King?” he argued, not letting it go.

  She laughed, wiping her tears away. “Do you think they don’t feel it too? They’re just better at hiding it. It’s natural to fear what you can’t control. It’s what drives them to do what’s right. Without it, they can’t anticipate what comes next. It’s the nightmares that feed the imagination and help them prepare for the worst. Do not let it overtake you, control it, and use it to be a better man; a better King.”

  He fought back the tears and nodded his head. He knew she was right, but sometimes knowing a thing and being able to act on it were two completely different things.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you too,” she answered with a lowered voice.

  They sat there in silence for a while, letting the raging emotions settle down. He felt the sun on his face, the sweat cooling on his skin, and the saddle making his inner thighs sore. His stomach growled, startling them both. “I’m hungry.”

  She chuckled. “Then let’s get moving so we can eat.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. He saw from the look in her eyes that they were going to be okay. He hated fighting with her, but he had to admit, a great weight had lifted and he felt more refreshed; better prepared to meet whatever came next.

  Hours later he would wonder how he ever thought that was possible.

  He looked up at the clouded sky and bid farewell to the barely visible sun. They were only fifty yards from Rakeshire Forest; the shadows of the trees reaching out to embrace them. They both kicked the flanks of their horses and started forward once more. The dirt road was beckoning; the bird song calling their names.

  As they entered the tree line he heard a hawk cry out, but he didn’t turn to see from where. He was with the woman that would soon be his wife and was determined not to let anything else interfere with them having a good day together. He let everything go and felt a genuine smile forming. Maybe everything was going to be all right after all.

  II

  An hour later they were lying on a large blanket beneath an old oak tree, their eyes locked on one another. Lunch had been consumed, stomachs assuaged, and now they were basking in the joy that came from being alone together.

  They were in the center of a small glen, the lone tree estranged from its protective kin surrounding them. A pond lay to their left, lily pads floating across its serene surface. The sound of a wagon carried on the wind, but they were far enough off the beaten path for anyone to find them; unless they were intentionally looking. Birds were singing and the frogs croaked an offbeat tune, trying to add to their melody. He swatted at a bug that came to rest on her shoulder and quickly forgot about it once it took flight.

  He was once again lost within her eyes, feeling them pull him closer. He traced a finger up her arm and leaned forward to taste her lips. Their mouths began to work and he felt the heat rising; his adrenaline pumping. Comfortable in the privacy their bodyguards provided, they felt free to act upon the desires that raged between them. His right hand fell to her lower calf and started sliding up her inner thigh. His mouth pushed further against hers and her own hands were pulling at his shirt. He could feel his body stir and yearned to be inside her once more.

  A loud cough made them jump.

  He yanked his hand away instantly and their lips broke apart, both heads turning to the unexpected intrusion. Why would one of the Guardians intrude upon their time together, was there something wrong?

  Seeing a group of strangers in the place of their bodyguards drove him to his feet without thought. His sword hung on a nub of the tree behind them. He quickly took the sheath in one hand and drew his blade with the other. Willow had her hand on an amulet that hung about her neck, ready
to weave her elven magic at the slightest provocation.

  Side by side, they steadied themselves for what came next.

  Four figures stood on the path leading into the glen; seemingly dismissive of their actions. A woman stood on the left, tall, with short dark red hair, and a stern face. She wore polished black platemail with red trim that glinted in the sunlight. A large shield appeared to be strapped to her back and one hand was on the pommel of her sword, barely visible from the concealment of her black cloak.

  Standing by her side was the young boy he had seen while exiting the castle grounds. He had a long walking stick in his grasp, which looked like it was used as a weapon more often than a guide. The boy was chuckling at something unspoken. Next to the imposing armored woman, he could see a resemblance between them and knew that they were related.

  On the far right was an unnaturally tall behemoth. The amount of wool that it took to create his cloak must have come from entire flock of sheep. His cowl concealed his face, but a pair of red eyes were fixed on them, as if gauging their abilities. He wore platemail as well, though silver and covered in grime. A large greataxe was held in the figure’s right hand; the weapon the largest of its kind he had ever seen. Fear crept up on him; he felt like a dwarf in the tall man’s presence.

  Standing a few steps closer and in the middle of the group was another cloaked figure, of average height and build, the shadows swallowing the face under the hood. He had a long staff that looked to be made of white crystals, a large one fixed to its tip. He acted like he only used it for support, but it was obvious it had other uses as well.

  “You have no need for your weapons, we come in peace,” the apparent leader announced.

  His sword did not waiver and his body shook with anticipation, sweat dripping down his face. Neither one of them relaxed their stance, unconvinced. His eyes flittered from axe to sword and he suddenly felt something pulling at his mind. His thoughts began to cloud over and his arm began to lower on its own volition. Focusing his thoughts, he drove the pressure back and brought it up once more.

  “Jared, I don’t need your help,” the cloaked figure stated and the blind boy grimaced from the reproach. “We’re not here to hurt you, only seek to make an introduction.” The man took another step forward, arms outstretched.

  “Be warned, I’m Tristan of Lancaster, heir to the throne of Griedlok, and my guards will soon be upon us. It’s best you return from whence you came before they arrive,” he responded. Taking a step forward and placing himself in front of his betrothed instinctively. He didn’t know who these people were, or how they got here unnoticed, but he felt uneasy in the presence of such a formidable gathering.

  The man chuckled. “Oh, I know full well who you are and be assured, our time together will go unnoticed by your famed Guardians.”

  “Got that right,” the blind boy boasted with a smile.

  What the hell did that mean? Were there more of them in the forest? Were their bodyguards already dead?

  “No harm has befallen your men. They simply do not know we are here. They will remain oblivious until we wish it otherwise,” the cloaked figure stated matter-of-factly.

  The man was reading his thoughts!

  Fury rose, setting fire to his heart, and his wounded pride spilled forth its venom. “It’s obvious from the presence of your blind comrade that you followed us here from the castle. If a true introduction was intended, you’d have met us there in the open, unafraid of the army camped in the vicinity. As you have slunk in the shadows and waited til the two of us were alone, far from home and support, I’m guessing your intentions are far less honorable than you make them out to be. If its ransom you seek, name your price. I will see it paid. But let’s be done with this charade of lies and speak only truth from here on out,” he sneered, hoping the fear just under the surface did not make his voice waiver as he spoke.

  The others in the man’s group bristled, hands tightening on their weapons.

  His body tensed, sure that battle was about to commence. He braced himself for what would surely be a short fight. He was unarmored and barely skilled with the sword. They looked like veteran warriors who could dispose of him quickly if they wanted. With a raised hand from their leader, the other three appeared to relax. He, however, kept his grip tight and ready just in case.

  “Is this how Princes of Lancaster are taught to greet their guests? With ignorant spiteful words?” the cowled man responded coldly.

  Tristan snorted. “I’m sorry, did I misplace your invitation?”

  Silence gripped the glen, even the creatures of the forest were quiet.

  The tension was suffocating and each party waited for the other to make the first move. If the Guardians were indeed ignorant of their plight, then it appeared to be a hopeless cause to resist. Despite his words, they had yet to show aggression, which made him wary of his suspicions. Obviously, this was a planned meeting, one meant to take place with no one else around to interfere, but no move had been made against them. Why do they wait?

  “I’m letting you work it out,” came the smooth voice from beneath the hood, answering his unspoken question.

  He heard Willow clear her throat. “What do you want?”

  “Merely to talk, Princess of Griedlok,” replied the mysterious stranger.

  They all stood in silence for what felt like hours and he realized that there was no point of resisting any further. He was unarmored and wielded a short sword that he was certain would never penetrate the platemail of just two of their foes. The magic Willow held in restraint might help, but he didn’t believe it was enough.

  With a grunt, he sheathed his sword; it was useless anyway. Though, instead of hanging it back on the tree, he strapped it about his waist. “Please,” he beckoned with his hand, giving leave for the man to approach.

  The cloaked figure stepped forward while the other three remained at the tree line. The man moved slowly, as if to ward off provoking them further. He stopped a few paces from the tree and slowly drew back his hood. The man appeared to be in his thirties. His mustache and goatee were peppered with sporadic gray hairs, giving him a distinguished look. His brow was prominent and his pale green eyes deeply set, the orbs penetrating his soul. He knew that there was no secret that he could harbor that this man could not ferret out. He felt power in that gaze, his presence exuded it, and he involuntarily took a step backward.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a strained voice.

  “My name—is Merlin.”

  III

  Far to the east, a restless King toured his battlements.

  With exception of the storm in the distance, the day was clear and the bright blue sky strove to calm his nerves. Still, his gaze was drawn west and he felt the uneasiness that filled his soul renewed. It was one hell of a storm and he prayed to the Gods that it did not head their way; yet knew it was foolish to wish it so.

  He stood above the drawbridge, hand upon the concrete wall, feeling the pitted texture beneath his fingers. He put his other hand out and stroked the flag sitting idly on its stand, bereft of wind. A falcon flew overhead, obscured by the sun piercing down upon him. A symbol of his family’s crest and hopefully an omen that all would go in their favor.

  He watched the grass below move with a gentle breeze and felt his body wanted to sway with it. Relief was needed from the stress that plagued his heart and his dreams. He hadn’t gotten much sleep before his magister woke him, and what little he got was filled with nightmares. Even the comforting press of his wife’s body against his, did little to keep them at bay.

  Now that he had a moment’s peace, half remembered images began to fill his mind.

  Three different times he had awoken, each time from a different nightmare.

  In the first, he was looking down on a human wearing silver armor covered in mud and gunk. The face felt familiar to him, though he could never recall ever meeting the man. He was on his knees next to a golden armored figure weeping. Protruding from this fallen knight’s
chest was a beautiful sword, which shimmered in the light of a full moon. There was power in the sword; he could feel it calling to him as if it had a voice of its own.

  “Take Excalibur. Give it to Nimue, she will keep it safe until it is needed again,” the man coughed, blood gushing from his mouth as he spoke.

  The name given to the sword sang in his blood and he felt his hand reaching for the sword’s hilt. Then his eyes chanced on the face of the dying man, and the unmistakable grief gave him pause as pity filled his heart.

  The next had him standing in this very spot on the battlements, eyes once again turned westward. The grasslands were filled with an enormous army that stretched across the limit of his vision and was still filing out of the forest beyond. They were well organized and siege engines were being pushed forward for an assault. Dark creatures flew overhead and the air was charged with electricity as lightning struck the flag pole his fingers were currently resting upon.

  An unknown youth had been standing at his side and cringed with the violent attack of the storm overhead. On his left stood a cloaked figure with a crystalline staff, his cloak billowing in the wind. They made for an odd trio and were gazing down at the horrors approaching with defiance but the resolve to see it through, to whatever end. In his hand was the same magical blade, Excalibur, and he watched as the sword was raised above his head. A war cry spilled forth and the knights below rallied to his cause.

  The third had been even more confusing than the rest; if that were possible.

  He was battling a knight in some unknown darkened battlefield. His faceplate was raised, yet he bore no face. The helmet was void of life. The knight was clad in the same silver armor that he had seen in the first dream, an identical sword in the man’s hands. They circled each other, lunging, parrying; neither one giving or losing ground. Their blades met and sparks flew; then he woke up to his steward’s hands shaking him.