Her love for Zarek was plain and the maiden was not embarrassed by it.
Mab and Oberon rose from their thrones. They moved as if they were moons orbiting the same sun. Together they brought her to her feet and embraced her.”
Rhys’ eyes widened as he read the story further.
“Mab stroked Calamity’s hair and whispered her questions to the girl.
“Is your love for Zarek true?” “Is his love true for you?” “Will you survive without him, or him without you?” “Are you willingly choosing to give up your immortality?” “Will he accept you in your human form?”
Calamity answered sincerely and Mab knew it was so through the Truth of Touch.
She asked Oberon to summon Titania and the Priestess’s Council so they could set the task for Zarek.
To Calamity she said, “Take heart, dear one, for I send you into the realm of Earth to wait for your true love. When you arrive on Earth, you must send Zarek into the desert to seek out the Silver Orchard and the Keeper. He must heed her words for without the instructions he will not meet success. She will pose the riddle to him and if he is successful she will ring the silver bells and transport him to us here in Eon. Your task is to find and retrieve the Cup of Truth from the line of King Cormac ua Cuinn and to us here. Remember to be swift child, time passes for us differently on Earth than it does for humans who are in Eon. If you are too slow you might come back to us in your old age. With the tasks completed, he will belong to you and you to him.
You will both be free to seek your destiny together on Earth.”
Rhys read the pages over and over until he had memorized every phrase. He went to the shelves and found parchment which he used to make a copy of the page for Naida. He selected a scrap piece from the rubbish pile and scratched the phrases “Touch of Truth”, “Priestess’s Council”, “the Keeper”, “Cup of Truth” and “Silver Orchard” on it, folding it and stuffing it into his jerkin. Heaving a long sigh, he closed the book and returned it to the shelf. He rolled the parchment and put away the quill and ink. As he closed the door behind him, Rhys realized that another quest was beginning. It would be a daunting voyage but maybe if he could finally put all the puzzle’s pieces together, he would have everything his heart desired.
That night, Rhys slept but he was disturbed by strange dreams. Repeatedly, he saw the shadow of a man in a long, hooded cloak moving like a ghost through a house. The figure stopped to touch people in the room, but took nothing from them. Rhys called out to him, “Ho, there.” And the man stopped. He turned and looked directly at Rhys. His eyes shone red and bright and then he vanished from the spot.
End Book Two
To be continued in:
Creatures of Acadia
Return to the Table of Contents
CREATURES OF ARCADIA
Sons of Camelot Book 3
by
Steve Rollins
Creatures of Arcadia
Published by Steve Rollins
Copyright © 2015 by Steve Rollins
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Sons of Camelot
by
Steve Rollins
BOOK THREE
CREATURES OF ARCADIA
“Dreams that come when the moon is dark are messages from the cosmos. They are not to be ignored.”
-Queen Mab, Fae of Eon
511 A.D.
The Twelfth Age of the Glastenning Sisterhood
Prologue
Glastonbury Tor, Somerset, England.
The messenger’s blood boiled in his veins, frothed at his lips and mingled with the tears of terror on his cheeks. Anebos watched curiously as he died. Humans. So fragile, so weak. Anebos loathed them more than he did the Fae; immortal scoundrels that they were. Beyond life and death, he had stalked the worlds of Eon and Earth and several more that bore no name and existed only as the dreaming nightmares of fanged, winged, nameless creatures beyond size and comprehension. The messenger fell to his knees, dropping the letter he clutched in his death grip. Anebos waved his hand and the parchment caught fire, curling and twisting, smoke rising from the paper as it combusted, describing swirled patterns in the air, that the cambion read like runes. They spelled out his future; they revealed the nature of things that no human could conceive without losing his grasp on sanity.
“It is done, Lord Oberon,” he hissed into the air, although there was no being near to him to hear. He was in a clearing in a forest far to the south from where he had been spying on the upstart whelp, Rhys of Gascogne. Knowing the back doors between the worlds was useful, although Anebos was growing tired of following orders in the service of an outcast fae. What cared he for kings, or petty wars? He was a cambion. An ancient nightmare, a terror, the death beyond death and the only one of his kind left; as far as he knew. Oberon asked too much – and offered too little – for his service; of that he was sure. Perhaps Oberon himself would feel the burning death soon enough. It was almost like being free, slaying like this. Almost free again, away from the shackles of the Unseelie Court. Soon, the war would be done, Mordred would be victorious, and the barriers between worlds would fall. The Lifetree will wither and rot. Anebos smacked his lips, tongue lolling. The scent of the blood pooling at his feet was almost irresistible, but he could not allow himself to feed. Not yet.
Anebos cast his mind into the aether, to the invisible shade of himself he left watching the sleeping Rhys of Gascogne. The boy was tossing fitfully. Did his dreaming self somehow know that his uncle, the man known as Owain, now laid dead, the life choked out of him? Perhaps. Anebos hoped that somehow he did. He tapped the corpse of Owain with his clawed foot. The man looked surprised in death, as if he had expected life to end another way. They all did. The wind rustled in the treetops, and Oberon’s voice came with it. It came as the hustle and bustle of high leaves, in the creak of branches, in the patter of scuttling animals. He’d intercepted Owain just outside of Glastonbury. Too close to his destination for Anebos’ liking, but that had not stopped him from annihilating the threat of the message being delivered.
“Well done, Anebos,” Oberon said from beyond the veil of the world.. “Avalon must be kept out of the fight ahead. The Glastenning will continue to wane in power, until the time of the thirteenth has come. Even so, their fae power is still formidable, and their allegiances with Mab will bring them to declare war upon us, if they know all. Go now. Mordred begins to march south.”
“Yesss, milord,” muttered Anebos. His forked tongue flickered. Mordred was in Ayr, a far step for a human to make from where Anebos stood, barely a league from Avalon itself. But, Anebos was no human, had never been human, and had the command of the magicks of fire and blood. The cambion knelt and swirled the pool of Owain’s blood with his fingertip.
“Shul-tar-eagh, Shul-tog-na-gig, Failt-augh-loc-milq!”
The words of the spell hissed from his lips, shaped well enough by his forked tongue. The blood shimmered with ripples not caused by any apparent touch. The cambion dove headfirst into the shallow pool, disappearing into the half inch of blood as easily as a cormorant plunges into the sea in search of fish. Owain’s body lay silent.
Leagues away, Rhys stirred in the breaking dawn. In Eon, Naida watched by her pool, and Queen Mab stirred in her dream-sleep; again troubled by the visions of Nestaron, of the end of her people, of the end of the Lifetree. Morgan la Fae dreamed the same dream, but dreamt of her nephew, of his death.
In Arcadia, Lord Oberon sat in the fae dawn, gazing into his own seer’s pool. The high court of the Unseelie lay, sat or floated sleepily around his dais. He clenched his ebony mail-clad fist, and disturbed the black waters. It was nigh, after all those countless ages. It was time for his revenge. His pawn, Mordred, would sweep the land of all Mab’s allies, and with it any hope she had of renewing Eon. Justi
ce.
***
The most infuriating fact that governs the human existence is that of frailty. That was the only thought that came to him as he lay there with his eyes still closed, breathing in the scent of her skin. He exhaled, thinking that if he had it to do it all again, he would. For him, it would be a delight. For him, everything was worth the pain, the strife. He held her across his lap, stroking her long hair just as he had when he pulled her from the water. As he did this, he realized that her pointed ears – the most obvious sign that she was not human – were becoming more rounded now. He hoped that the possibility of her leaving him, not being able to stay there with him forever, had truly passed. She coughed and moved a little, resettling her weight in his lap as if to confirm that she had no plans to go anywhere. Her rosebud mouth was closed, pursed lips that were the rosy pink he adored. She rolled over on his lap to face the bright rays of the sun and he laid her golden hair out over his thigh so the sun could dry it along with her skin and dress, never taking his green eyes away from her face.
With her eyes closed like that, she looks ethereal, he thought. She breathes as if it is the first time she has done so; well perhaps it is.
She was mesmerizing him. Her almond-shaped lids fluttered, her violet eyes searching, trying to find his face.
“You have done it, Rhys,” Naida whispered. “You have achieved all you set out to do. Everything for yourself, your family, you have done so for me as well.”
“Naida, it is you who has achieved it all,” Rhys answered. He stroked the hair back from her brow as he spoke. “You were the driving force, the magic, the undying perseverance, the love. You are my love, forever.”
“And you are mine,” she echoed.
He placed her gently down on the soft grass and lay down beside her, stroking the flaxen curls that fanned out around her head. He put his lips to her ears and she closed her eyes again.
She sighed as he whispered:
How beautiful you are, my darling!
Oh, how beautiful! Your eyes are doves.
Your hair is like a field of wheat descending from the hills.
Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon; your mouth is lovely.
You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.
She sighed again and replied:
All night long I looked for the one my heart loves;
I looked for him but did not find him.
I went up into the city, through its streets and squares;
I searched for the one my heart loves.
When I found my heart’s love, I held him and would not let him go.
Rhys woke with a start and wiped the tears from his eyes angrily. It seemed these days that even his dreams fought against him. There was a hard road ahead for him and for all the other Sons of the Round Table. Nothing had made that more clear than the news that Derrick of Liverpool had gone ahead to Kendal instead of waiting for their arrival. The news they had met on the road – which must have been similar to what Liverpool had heard – was grim and frightening, and yet they rode forward to the inevitable battle.
Chapter One
Ayr, Ayrshire, Scotland.
The frozen air from the mountains blew through the castle. ‘Castle’ was perhaps too kind a word for the blackened, ruined battlements of the fort at Ayr. Mordred stamped his feet, and ordered more wood to be placed on the fires. Dawn was breaking over Scotland through mist and fog, barely bringing enough light to let the few birds remaining in the trees know that it was indeed time to wake and sing. When they did, though, their songs were mournful. Their songs echoed the hearts of the peasants, displaced and scared away when Mordred took the lands.
Mordred, natural born son of Arthur and rightful heir to the throne of all lands north and south, was for once in a hale and hearty mood. The preparations for war were going well, the Sons of the Round Table had been stymied at every turn, and his own force was swollen with the wild Pictmen, Celt clans and Viking mercenaries. He had invited their leaders to break their fast together, on coarse brown bread, thick cuts of salted pork belly and black beer, but was interrupted in his meal by the appearance of his servant, Donal.
“My liege,” Donal stammered. “It is here, and craves an audience with Your Majesty.”
It had always un-nerved Donal. The shrew-like serf had attended on Mordred for a decade, and had blankly witnessed many terrible things committed by Mordred and his forces in the name of his quest for retribution and revenge. Only Anebos had ever installed fear in him. Whether Donal was numb to mortal terrors or simply superstitious and afraid of faefolk, Mordred never asked. He put his trencher down, sourly regarding the uneaten meat. Ragnar Lodbrok, leader of the Viking warriors, regarded his employer with surprise. It must be a mighty thing indeed to draw a future king away from his meal. The Pict chieftains did not raise their faces from their meals, slavering and gobbling like the pigs that had provided their morning meat. Mordred stalked away with long strides, closing the heavy oaken door of his quarters behind him. The fire in the hearth was low, and his breath condensed on the preternatural chill of the air. The cambion stood in front of the fire, barely a shadow, almost impossible to see, save from the corner of Mordred’s eye. To look at it directly was to see a skittering nothingness and to sense impending death from hidden attackers that were surely right behind your shoulder. Mordred despised the undead thing, this Wight of the ages. Why had he been sent this creature? No doubt it had proven itself to be a spy and assassin of some great power, but Mordred felt like he was being maneuvered. Manipulated.
“What do you disturb my breakfast for, ghoul? Come to tell me more tales from your master? I grow weary of waiting on Lord Oberon’s commands.” Mordred drew himself up to his full height and regal bearing. The cambion hissed softly to itself, and brought itself into better view. Its shadowy form thickened, blotted out more of the fire behind it, but still fell short of full opacity. Mordred could at least see the dead thing’s face, red-eyed and wan-skinned, pointy-eared and long of tooth.
“Ssssoooo, Lord Mordred, he who would be king,” Anebos spoke with a false sweetness. “You would do well to remember that I am not your subject, and you are not my king. Even more so, you would do well to thank those who do you favor, and quickly, before they make you beg on your knees.”
Mordred scoffed. “I fear you not, demon. I am the son of the greatest warrior of our age, blessed by birth and of pure blood. My father’s blood courses through my veins as does the blood of Uther, my grandfather. Twice over, in fact!” Mordred gave an evil chuckle at his last comment. Anebos snickered mockingly.
“Oh, you laugh? Arthur may be my sworn enemy, but he is a great warrior. Only a fool would deny the power of the blood of kings. I command you again, what brings you here? What message does Oberon send?” Mordred drew his short sword from the scabbard, and pointed the black iron blade at Anebos’ throat. “Speak! Quickly! I command it!”
Anebos cowered. The cambion could not stand against the power of Mordred, despite its bluster. “As you wish, my Lord Mordred, I meant no offense. My master Oberon tells me your preparations are close to their end. Your army is ready?”
Mordred smiled mirthlessly and beckoned Anebos to the balcony. Mordred pulled back the heavy curtain that had been hung to preserve the heat of the fire. The flames in the hearth lunged at the draught of air, licking around and through Anebos. The cambion did not seem to notice, and stepped forward to join Mordred. Outside, as far as the eye could see from east to west, there were crude tents, horses, covered wagons and men. Flags and banners hung lazily at the top of their poles, and an ill wind blew. Mist rolled before it, sloughing over the army. Spear tips broke the higher fog like reeds in a vast gray lake.
“Impressssive,” hissed the cambion. “How many mortals do you have here?” The inflection Anebos put on the word mortals caused Mordred to curl his lip.
“I have five thousand men, with several hundred Viking reapers still off the coast aboard ship; warriors
all of them; Picts, Celts, men of Northumbria who recognize their true fealty. What of these Sons of Camelot? How fares their muster?”
Anebos laughed a cackling low rattle. “Not half your numbers, less than even that if you move quickly, Lord Mordred. It is why I am bid to come to you now. The Sons aim for Keswick to rally their banners, but they are not one force yet. My Lord Oberon has seen that two of their number are at Kendal, lightly defended and not yet ready to march. Five hundred spears are all that they have.”
“Your Lord Oberon is very forthcoming with his spry intelligence, Wight. Pray, what does your master hope to gain by aiding me in my war against my father? Surely the Unseelie Court has no great interest in the wars of men. Tell me, Wight. What price must I pay for the aid of Arcadia?” Mordred said, and he glowered with suspicious malevolence. His heavy brow furrowed, and he slung back the heavy curtain. The fire fanned once more, and started to sputter under the dark stone. Anebos slunk back toward the dying embers. The creature seemed to like the warmth despite his ghastly pallor, or perhaps because of it.
“My Lord Oberon trusts that you will be more… favorable to his wishes than your father has been,” Anebos said. “Arthur dislikes faefolk, would have humankind forget about us, in favor of his master, the one they call Christ. What good are dead gods? Better to have allies who can talk back to you, who can grant you favors, yes?”
“Watch your tongue, serpent!” Mordred swiped at the wraith with a hand, but it passed right through his body. Anebos just smiled. “My father has numbered days, but our God is the God. I will not tolerate your blasphemy. The Vikings pray to gods they say are the lightning, or the snake that encircles the sea, or the mountains themselves. I care not for their gods; or they for mine, but we understand that to curse the faith of our allies is death. You would do well to find the same wisdom.”
Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy Page 17