Tales of the Once and Future King

by Anthony Marchetta

  Brand nodded. “Let us see what these travelers are made of.”

  Maddie and the other travelers spent a great deal of time talking, debating, and arguing about what to do. By the morning they were all on the same page except for Maddie, who had been overruled by the group consensus, and was very unhappy about it. When Brand arrived, with Fox flanking him, she was silently fuming. Nevertheless, she was resolved not to interfere with their plan. Frustrated as she was, Maddie recognized the danger of the situation and knew how foolish it would be to take unnecessary risks. That’s not to say she had to like it.

  Brand started things off. “Our offer still stands.” He went and sat heavily on a tree stump, hands resting on his knees. “We keep Maddie here while the three of you go out on a quest for my people. Do we have a deal?”

  Everybody looked at each other, then looked towards Lance, who spoke first. “With due respect, Lord Brand,” said Lance, “You are not holding us here—not anymore. We have simply decided not to leave.” Lance kept his voice calm and controlled.

  Brand raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? How is that the case?”

  “Well,” Lance continued smoothly, “It is the case for the very simple reason that if all four of us had decided to coordinate an attack, we would already be gone and you would probably be dead.”

  There was a pause at these words, and Brand seemed genuinely surprised. He looked at Fox. “Is this true?”

  Fox did not respond for a long time. He appeared lost in thought, to the point that Maddie wondered if he had even heard what was going on. Just before she decided to break the silence, Fox spoke. “Yes. It is true.” He said nothing else, but stared at Lance with a look on his face that Maddie didn’t understand. Admiration?

  Lance nodded, satisfied. “There. Your magician, or wizard, or whatever he’s supposed to be—“

  “Bard,” said Fox.

  “Okay, ‘bard’,” continued Lance. “Well, he speaks the truth. We are here because we want to be here, and as you have no cause to keep us anyway we are well within our rights to leave besides.”

  Brand was clearly rattled by the turn of events.

  “Okay, then. I suppose I might as well try and get used to the new look of things. Why are you here?”

  “We did not leave,” said Lance, “because we are the Knights of Avalon.”

  Brand narrowed his eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “Then I’ll explain.” This time it was Bennett speaking. “We—the four of us—are on a quest to find Michael Maddocks, the man who is destined to fulfill the promise of King Arthur’s return. Or rather, they are.” He looked towards Lance and Gavin. “In fact, Maddie and I have our own goals—goals which we do not intend to share with you. Nevertheless, we all agree that serving the Pendragon is a worthy cause.”

  “So what,” said Brand, getting irritated, “does that have to do with any of this?”

  “You are a people in need, or you appear to be. The Knights of Avalon do not refuse help to men in need. But—to cut to the chase—you need to tell us what’s really going on here. Look at this from our perspective. We were walking through the forest when a band of outlaws ambushed us, kidnapped us, then tried to force us to do a job for them, one they were too afraid to do themselves. Now, Miss Calvin here,” Bennett looked in Maddie’s direction. She was still scowling. “She is on an extremely time-sensitive mission and wasn’t even interested in hearing you out, and honestly, I am very nearly on her side. So explain, and if you’re not lying, then maybe—maybe—we’ll help you out. Otherwise, give us our horses and we’ll be on our way. Any other choice you make will force us to hurt you.”

  Brand recovered impressively quickly from the shock of learning that his position of leverage had disappeared. He looked at the four travelers impassively, then turned towards Fox. “You promise me that they are trustworthy?”

  Fox nodded. “I am sure of it. They are the Knights of Avalon. Their word is worth more than gold. You can trust them.”

  “Very well,” said Brand. “I seem to have no other choice in the matter. This is our story, and I promise you that I speak the truth.

  “We come from a town about an hour out from here,” Brand began, “and we had been doing well. Growing. But, like everywhere else, water was scarce. A neighboring town began to have skirmishes with us over water, so our men prepared in case they tried a full-scale attack.”

  Brand shook his head. “We were prepared to fight when the invaders ransacked our village,” he continued, “But not nearly prepared enough for what we were up against.

  “The fighting was ruthless. Brutal. But we managed to gain the upper hand over the bulk of their force. And yet… as the day went on, something strange happened.”

  Bennett watched Brand very carefully, analyzing him like a scientist studied lab rats. “Go on.”

  Brand turned to Bennett. “As the day went on, and the sun sank lower in the sky, they got stronger. I don’t know how to explain it, but as our arms grew heavy, as our wounds took their toll, they seemed to fight harder. And then we noticed something… they had no blood.”

  Maddie felt as if a sudden chill had swept through the forest. “No blood?”

  Brand shook his head. “That’s right. No blood at all. We would stab them, and shoot them, hack, slash… well, at first they screamed in pain. But as it got darker, even that stopped. Wounds started healing as soon as we inflicted them. This wasn’t for all of them, you understand, but for the leaders—the officers, if you want to call them that.

  “When we realized it was hopeless I stayed behind with my men to hold off the invaders while the women and children escaped with those that were too ill to fight. I tasked a small group of men with them to lead the rescue.

  “In the end, I myself barely escaped. During our retreat to the forest, we thought we had managed to get away. The invaders didn’t pursue… or so it appeared. Minutes later, a strange shape seemed to be coming to attack us—a huge, black cloud that gave off this… shriek. Like something from Hell.”

  Brand seemed lost in thought, but Maddie shivered.

  “We were swarmed. These flying monstrosities kept scratching at us, biting us, shrieking and shrieking until we were almost deaf. Many of us managed to escape once we reached the forest. Many did not.”

  Bennett leaned in. “Do you know what it was that attacked you?”

  Brand shook his head. “No, and believe me, I’ve tried to figure it out. But I have no idea. Some sort of bird, maybe, but not crows.”

  “I have a story to tell,” said Fox abruptly. Maddie looked at him, startled. “A story? Now?”

  Brand looked at her. “Let him speak. This might be important.”

  Maddie blinked. “But we’re—“

  “Fox,” Brand interrupted. “Please tell us your stories.”

  Fox stood up and looked around at all of them. Maddie was about to speak again when Bennett put a hand on her shoulder. “Brand is right, Maddie. There’s something about this guy. Let’s listen.”

  Maddie looked at Fox. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  Fox looked around. “This first story is titled ‘Tristan and Isolde.’ It’s a chivalric tragedy with giant steampunk battle robots. Also, vampires.”

  And Fox began.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tristan and Isolde, by Matthew P. Schmidt

  A Chivalric Tragedy with Giant Steampunk Battle Robots

  (also, vampires)

  I sat with her hand in mine, for we needed no words after their reunion. Then my dream was torn apart by the alarm bell, and I was on my feet in seconds. I strapped on the leather control gear over my shift in the order I had been drilled in—helmet, sleeves, leggings, belt, gloves. In the belt I slid the silver-edged dagger. It was unlikely I would have to fight hand to hand, but it was not unheard of for a pilot to survive their great armor’s destruction.

  A horrible crash in the rafters above indicated that the darkness had brought some form of bombard: Giants slinging b
oulders, or one of their Naglfar-class siege engines. Our siege cannons fired in return, and I could feel my entrails quiver through the deafening noise. Yet I felt no fear as I left the barracks into the open, cold air. Instead, looking up through the endless night at the Last Star, I felt a kind of peace—or if not peace, hope.

  The pages awaited me as I reached the armory, little better dressed than I was. Sir Richard bellowed at page and junker alike from inside his custom Sacnoth IV-c-24, but he hardly needed to. We had practiced this in drills hundreds of times, and our muster proceeded as a play the actors had memorized. I climbed the ladder into my own great armor, assisted by the pages. I said a short prayer while they strapped the control tethers to my limbs, helm, and lastly gloves.

  My Durendal III-c was technically the most modern among all of us junkers’ great armors. Nonetheless, it had been the last choice when they were being assigned to the newly promoted pages. The c series had further plated the joints, but the dexter arm had taken a several-ton giant’s fist in the elbow. It still bent, but not well. The crack in the sinister mirror panel before me made the much-vaunted full rotation helm above a cruel jest. I needed to turn the helm to properly see leftwards. One leg had a limp, as if the armor itself had the arthritis of the knight who had left it to Sir Richard. The engineers swore loudly and profusely that if there was but one true leak in the pipes, the alchemical steam would broil me alive, and that this had yet to occur was proof there was no leak. I insisted that the smell and increase in humidity and heat indicated something. Yet before that my first battle, I ignored the smell entirely.

  Adrenaline flooded my body. It is impossible to describe piloting a great armor to someone who never has. “Wearing” might be a better term. Every motion you make is mimicked by something far vaster than you. Any resistance the great armor encounters—like its massive sword cutting through its foe—is relayed back through the tethers. If you lance through some beast, it is you who lance. If the armor is struck, it is you who is struck. The only thing you do not feel is the pain of injury. Little wonder that most knights consider their armor closer than a wife.

  Most of the other junkers had already gathered next to Sir Richard, behind one of the Wall’s massive crenelations, by the time I got into formation. This was by simple virtue of them being in better shape, at least in speed. David’s Gae Bolga could run as if it was brand new, but its arms had been patched so many times that its lance was its only useful weapon. Eric’s Snickersnee was almost as fast, but could barely turn. Oscar had gotten the old prototype Eterne, due to his birth, I’m sure. But he had about as much trouble as the previous knight in controlling it, and he had often fallen over in our drills.

  Other junkers’ great armors had other issues. Shigeru’s Kusanagi-39R had once been of the most heavily plated great armors in existence. Even though its makers had fallen, the alchemically-treated wood had survived for battle after battle, barely scratched. I thought a dragon’s breath could potentially damage it, but if not that, it would survive the end of the world. Nonetheless, it had simply gotten so old that it slowed until an ordinary human could outrun it. Sir Richard was at a loss where to put Shigeru in his formation, and perhaps the agility-focused knight would have found a different junker if he hadn’t liked Shigeru so much. He had decided for the moment to put him and the Kusanagi on his left flank to protect Rolf’s fragile Mjolnir IV-A, a duty which also fell to myself.

  “All ready?” Sir Richard boomed from the Sacnoth. Even without the acoustics chambers, he could have been heard anywhere.

  “Yes, sir!” we all shouted. Did I mention that armor, too, speaks with your voice, and you with the armor’s?

  “Sortie!” Sir Richard was a knight of few words.

  There were few requirements for a great armor to be suitable for junker use instead of scrap. Being able to jump off the Wall and survive was one of them. Yet no matter how many times I had made that same jump without injury, I feared it nevertheless. The impact made my entire armor shudder, but then it was the chaos of battle, and no time to think.

  The smaller creatures of the darkness fled like mice from a cat. Any who came too close were slaughtered by our practiced strikes. But it was the men-at-arms on the ground who fought them. Our true prey were those beasts and terrible machines that would slaughter our own foot soldiers.

  Giants with enormous slings manned the bulwark of the darkness, constructed of ice and steel atop the remains of decades of previous siege works. I did not know how they had made it so quickly, but our own barrage was quickly unmaking it. At our approach the giants ceased their fire on the Wall and threw their boulders instead at us, or rolled them down the side. Others took up hideous spiked clubs, and screaming obscene war cries, charged.

  “Left flank, hold and fire, right, with me!” Sir Richard shouted. Bloodlust within me urged to charge alongside the right, but I had my duty. The Mjolnir was the most devastating siege armor in common use, and though nearly nothing else worked in Rolf’s Mjolnir IV-A the cannon arm was perfectly intact. I didn’t know how Rolf did not go deaf, for I nearly did as he fired. Though less powerful than the siege guns, he was far closer to the bulwark and could aim better. One section of the bulwark disintegrated in a shower of ice chips and metal fragments. Ten seconds later, he had reloaded and a giant atop the bulwark violently died.

  We had no fortification of our own to hide behind, but the giants had worse aim and we had more protection than fur. A boulder glanced off my great armor’s helm, and the noise was more of a distraction than any harm. Rolf shot giant after giant with a perfect rhythm, until they hid behind their crenelations. That saved them little, for Rolf then shot their cover apart.

  Their commander must have realized this, for he changed tactics. Several howls later all giants jumped over their wall or left through holes in a mass of white fur, clubs, and fists, all towards us. I turned my helm to see around, and I saw the lesser creatures had left the men-at-arms to attack us. Panic told me to flee, but I did not. Sir Richard shouted, “Right flank, return! Left flank, hold your ground!” The right flank disengaged and turned towards us.

  The giants arrived first. There were few things that could stop a great armor’s sword, and a giant’s club and furs were not one of them. I did not think as I reflexively cut through all and killed for the first time. Nor did I feel as I saw the corpse fall in blood. Two more giants came over atop their dead comrade, and I could not think at all.

  Perhaps we three would have died if the right flank had not returned. I swore that if I were to survive this battle, I would throttle the next fool who claimed my master wasted precious scrip on perfecting his favorite great armor. The Sacnoth worked like a lyre played in the hands of a master. If there was any loss in agility in the Sacnoth series, Sir Richard had either tweaked it into nonexistence, or compensated with sheer practice. He struck one giant, spun to cut off the limb of another, and leaped after a third, as the giants turned to flee before him.

  But then the black armor came.

  All I heard was Oscar’s fatal scream. Then David’s, as he and Sir Richard turned to fight the machine. Eric could not turn, slipped on a icy crag, and one of the black armor’s swords cut and tossed his armor away with its force. Rolf took a perfect shot and the black armor was directly hit. It paused for the smallest sliver of a moment, and in that moment I saw it perfectly: one massive black figure with two swords, covered with obscene, occult symbols, with a mask like that of a demon. Only one red mark dripped where Rolf had shot it.

  Its pilot must have realized that Rolf was the greatest threat, and ignored the other great armors as it charged us. Sir Richard came after it, but it swiveled and spun and a sword cut down through the armor. I did not see, but I heard the knight’s agonized cry.

  And the black armor was on us.

  Shigeru blocked the black armor on one side, and as it hammered with its swords at his armor I maneuvered behind and cut with my sword. I did not know if the red substance loosed after I severed
the black armor’s forelimb was blood, nor did I care. I screamed, an echo repeated by my armor, as I slashed and slashed again. The black knight spun and tackled me, and we fell over with a horrible crash.

  I was stunned for only the smallest of moments. My armor flailed uselessly as I cut the tethers and freed myself. If I remained inside, any tiny cracks in the steam pipes from the fall would quickly become large cracks and turn the armor into an oven. I climbed up the rungs to the hatch and forced it open.

  Whatever powered the black armors must have had a similar danger, for on the other side was the black knight himself, corpse-pale and in black leather.

  Our mutual shock lasted perhaps a second. Then he lunged with his fangs as I stabbed the dagger towards his heart, and we fell together into my armor again. The pain of vampire fangs in my arm was far less than his shudders as I forced the dagger deeper inwards. The pain must have been too much, for he broke off his bite to scream, and I continued stabbing and stabbing until he screamed no more.

  The Kusanagi stood silent above as the soldiers pulled me out. The two healers held me down while another injected alchemical blood directly into the bite. Through the agony, I managed to coherently scream “Richard! Sir Richard!”

  Another voice screamed over mine—”Is dead!”

  I could barely breathe in the throne room: gold, silver, fine wood, and enough candles that it was almost mythical Day. There were all those I had heard so much of, and yet had never seen. Archbishop Paul on one side, holding his weight on the crosier from before the darkness. The Silver Lady on the other, whose tongue was concealed behind her silvered teeth, ready for ambush. The Merlin sat by the throne in what have once been court attire before some acidic explosion, and he wore his goggles without a touch of self-consciousness. On the other seat, the Prime Minister of Neo Logres—I could not remember the new one’s name—wore the black and white of the past, as if mourning that fallen age. The courtiers wore their finest, and by some expressions, most uncomfortable clothing.