Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy

by Steve Rollins

  “Mae'r ddraig yn gartref i aros,” said Richard, speaking the family words. The dragon is home to stay.

  Dawn broke the following morning with clear skies that glowed with a burnished red as if the hills themselves bloomed with fire. The older soldiers muttered to each other about ill omens of blood and death that would follow a crimson dawn. The eyes of the fresher recruits and sons that traveled carrying the spears of their fathers showed that they believed every word. The morning breakfast – salt pork and coarse bread cooked together over campfires that hissed over the dewy grass – was interrupted by the alarum call from the sentries. Five hundred well-drilled men grasped shields and helms, but the call was only to alert of a single march rider bearing the standard of Kendal on a pennant atop his lance. The rider galloped through the camp, poising to vault from his horse where the largest tents that housed the Sons of the Round Table were pitched. He dismounted, and knelt before the six knights; Sir Owen, Sir Richard, Sir Gawain, Sir John, Sir Thomas and Rhys himself. The man seemed near complete collapse, the heavy riding jerkin he wore was sodden, either with the ending rain of the night or with his own sweat, Rhys could not tell.

  “Rise, sir. Harald! Bring a skin of mead; this man needs a drink!” Owen said, ushering his squire into action. The rider raised his head, but his hands would not leave the grass beneath him and his elbows shook. His voice was similarly quavering and barely audible past the dry rasping croak in his throat. When the boy had fed him a few mouthfuls of mead, he was at last able to speak. A curious circle of men at arms and bowmen had closed in around the rider to hear the news that was so urgent, it had caused a messenger to come through the night, near to the cost of the life of both his mount and himself.

  “My lords, I am Elric, son of Uter. I have come from Kendal, and I bear grave news. The city is surely lost.” Elric sounded close to tears now that his journey had ended. The gathered men gave up a cry of dismay, some rattled their spears in anger and the hubbub was so great Rhys had to shout.

  “Silence! All of you, be still! Speak Elric, son of Uter. What peril has befallen fair Kendal and her sons?” Rhys said, surprised at the commanding timbre in his own voice which appeared not to be his own, but that of his grandfather in his prime. Elric’s eyes widened and he raised his head to see the raven-haired and green-eyed boy with such authority in his voice.

  “My lord, these two nights past, we were beset on two sides. Word came that long ships came ashore at Backbarrow, but before we could marshal a response, we saw a great horde arriving from the north, and a foul stink came with them. Hundreds there were my lords, all misshapen creatures unlike any man of the kingdom. Aye, men there were too, wild men from Pictland, we thought, waving burning brands in the night. My lord, Sir Henry, told me to ride hard south, to bring word to you. By the end of the first night I could see the fires in the distance, though it took me no little time to find where you were camped… I… I’m sorry, my lords.” Elric wept, and Owen helped him gently to his feet.

  “What of Sir Derrick and Sir Henry? Do their defenses hold? Speak, man!” Richard was full of blood, full of fury. His hand went to his sword hilt, eager for battle.

  “Peace, Richard!” Gawain said, calmly; he was ever the rational one. “See that his horse is watered, and get this man some food. We ride north in one hour! For Kendal! For King Arthur!” The camp erupted in activity, men running hither and thither, packing the tents that were not yet stowed, dowsing camp fires and shouting orders.

  Rhys stood, dumbfounded. Mordred had moved first; he must know that the Sons rallied their banners and rode north to Kendal. He meant to split their forces and crush them piecemeal. They should ride at full force to Kendal, but would they be in time? It was more than likely a move to draw their army out into a vulnerable position, and then destroy it as they advanced in a foolish heroic rescue. Rhys patted Broderick’s flank as he saddled his charger.

  “Fools charge or no, we ride, my friend. Pray that we ride not to our deaths, but to victory in Arthur’s name.”

  Chapter Four

  Kendal, Cumbria, England.

  The palisades had been overrun, their defenders fleeing back to the sheltered walls of Kendal. Little shelter they would find there. The beastlike, ferocious men of Pictland and the terrible black arrows that came from the skulking shadows that patrolled the gloom, beat the peasant auxiliaries and huscarls back. Sir Henry of Kendal, just twenty-two and in command of the defense of the northern walls, looked out with a grim countenance through the visor of his fine, steel helm. He stood atop the battlements of the wall, overseeing the combat below.

  “Open the gate and let these men through! Prepare spears to repel pursuers! Efrick, Sam, prepare the oil. In the name of King Arthur, we hold this line against hell itself!” Henry drew his sword and swung it through the air. It was no cheap gesture, as at his stroke, a volley of arrows soared from the four lines of twenty bowmen each, who stood over the crenelations to fire their arrows and then duck back down, protecting their bodies from return fire. Henry saw a handful of Northmen stagger and fall, their fellows breaking off the chase of the retreating defenders and scurrying back, trying to get out of range before the next sharp rain fell. There was a clanking of steel on steel and Sir Derrick of Liverpool appeared on the spiral stairs leading up to Henry’s vantage point. His face was a sheen of sweat and drying blood, but the crimson fluid did not appear to flow from any wound he himself had sustained, which gladdened Henry’s heart.

  “Ho, Sir Henry! The east wall is secure, for now. Some fell men, skin as dark as ash, came over the walls with grapples, but we cut them down with sword and spear. How fare you here?” Derrick was breathing hard as he spoke, and Henry noticed that he was missing a tooth.

  “We resist, but we do not prevail. The palisades are lost, and the northern road is overrun, but I do not see how our enemies can breach these walls without great loss of life.” Henry pointed beyond the walls to the flames which were once peasant houses. “They come fore, loose arrows at us and then retreat. So it has been these last two bells of the church tower, by my ken. Still, we have lost few men, which is a blessing. Do you think they mean to starve us out?”

  Sir Derrick considered. “Unlikely, I think. They would need a force of ten times what they have to garrison us in, and if we are being attacked so suddenly, then Mordred must know that more forces are being mustered to the south. We need only survive this night, perhaps the next as well, and then we will be sure to see Sir Rhys leading the banners to our aid. Be assured, and fear not.” Henry punched Derrick’s shield with his mailed fist, clanging the metal together where the scarlet livery was scratched and gouged by sword strokes.

  “I am glad Liverpool stands with us this night, brother. Kendal has never faced so grim a day.” Henry would have spoken more, but he was cut short by the tolling of the bell at the kirk. Sonorous low notes pealed over the city.

  “What new devilry is this?” said Derrick, straightening his tabard, getting ready to fight again. Henry cocked his head to listen.

  “The rhythms of the bells say the west wall. Let us go now, with all haste!” Henry ran as fast as his heavy armor would allow, down the spiral stairs from the battlements to where his horse stood, held by his squire, Dylan. The boy was wild-eyed, only thirteen and in fear for his life.

  “Strength and duty, lad,” Henry told him as Dylan helped him onto his horse. “Remain here, get to my post on the battlements and order a volley of arrows at anyone you see come within bowshot, understand?”

  “Aye, my lord!” the boy stammered, and sprinted up the stone steps. It was too soon for such responsibility to be thrust on him, Henry knew, but this was too much of a strain on all of them. Derrick mounted his charger beside him and the two knights kicked their mounts to motion, cantering through the dirt brown streets of the town. Kendal was not a large settlement, so they reached the walls before the bells had finished raising the alarm. A hundred men at arms and levy militia waited below Henry’s uncle, Lo
rd Melegeant, who stood on the ramparts, and turned to see his nephew arrive.

  “Ho, Henry my blood and life. The Vikings are here, and they have not come alone!” he cried.

  As if to punctuate his remark, the great west gate shuddered under a huge impact.

  “No battering ram is this; none could get so close so speedily,” said Derrick. Melegeant could not hear Derrick’s words, but answered him nonetheless. “It is a trebuchet! It will breach the walls within the hour, or within a minute, I cannot say which. Bear arms! Ready the men!”

  Henry saluted his father, and, from his position on his horse towering above the soldiers, he bellowed against the furious crack of stone on wood, and stone on stone.

  “Men of Kendal! This gate will fall, but you shall not. Ready your spears! The Viking horde would slay your mothers and fathers and rape your wives, but we shall slay them all for daring to sully our lands with their vileness. Together, we fight! Together we die! For King Arthur, for Lord Melegeant, for Kendal!”

  The hundred spears raised to the sky and their bearers roared their bloodlust. They were invincible with two great knights with them, their liege lord on the walls, and their families at their backs. With the sound of thunder in their hearts, they turned to the great west gate of Kendal, ready to kill whoever, whatever came through the breach. A whipping noise like the dying of dreams rent the air, and the trebuchet fired again. The rock flew true, too true, and struck the gate hard. Showers of wooden splinters as long as the palm of a man flew, piercing many of the soldiers.

  “Raise your shields! Hold them to the ready!” Henry called loudly over the din.

  “The crew of this weapon know their craft,” stated Derrick. “I doubt even King Arthur’s best siege engineer could make two shots like that with a trebuchet, and so quickly too!”

  “Look, there is more than one – here comes another shot!” cried a soldier, pointing to the sky.

  Henry looked, and a rock was hurtling through the air, wreathed in flames of green. Green fire; a fiend fire. His heart sank. Vikings were no witches, although they were thought to consult runes and seers. They have not come alone. He looked up at his uncle, ordering volleys of arrows. The rock launched by the trebuchet streaked through the air, a baleful, falling star, smashing into the very ramparts where Lord Melegeant stood. The wall of Kendal exploded, a force of air pushing men onto their backs. Henry’s horse reared and whinnied, but stayed aright. The brick dust took what seemed a century to clear, and when it did, the Lord of Kendal lay rent on his broken battlement.

  “Uncle!” Henry shouted, but he knew it was too late for his lord now. Through the dust and the gap hewn in the wall came screaming Viking berserkers, and some of the ash-skinned men Derrick had seen. They were not men, that was clear. Their movements too graceful, their blades curved and spiked in wicked artistry that no man could have wrought. At the head of these interlopers stood their leader, ash of skin with a black crown atop his head. He bore a long spear, with blades at both ends of an intricately jeweled shaft. There was silence as he approached.

  “I am Erandur, King of the Dark Elves. I am the wailing doom. I am your death.”

  His voice cut like winter winds, and fear gripped at Henry’s heart right through his tabard, breastplate and mail. He shook himself and met the devil’s red eye.

  “For King Arthur! For Kendal!” he cried, and spurred his horse to charge, Derrick at his side.

  Chapter Five

  Earth

  “This is the epitome of the word impossible!” spat Minerva, as she sat on the bough of a favored tree that responded to her touch by blooming fresh sweet fruits in moments. The faerie ignored the proffered gifts in her doldrums. A night and a day and another night on Earth can be an eternity for faefolk with a task. Not given to perseverance or diligence by nature, Minerva was typical of her kind. She wished that she was off with the other fae, whispering dreams to mortal men, turning their minds to take up arms and head north to bolster the forces opposed to Oberon and Mordred. She wished she was back at the court of Eon, or in the high libraries, or anywhere else. Rinnah had not been seen in a generation of her kind, which was many generations of mortal lives.

  “Perhaps a bit more cheeriness, my friend Minerva!” said Naida, violet eyes twinkling. “Though we have the hardest task, do you not see that we are fated to succeed?”

  “Fate! I can tell you stories about fate that would curl your hair, if your hair wasn’t so curly already. Be true to me now, friend. Do you really believe that your human boy is Nestaron? There is precious little time for lollygagging on his part or ours, and he rides into the very teeth of destruction itself.” Minerva immediately regretted her words as she saw Naida’s eyes grow large and weepy. “I’m sorry, Naida. That was unkind.”

  “It is alright, Minerva. I just haven’t heard any word from Rhys. I thought I heard him call my name into the water last night, but there was nothing there. I fear Oberon or some bedeviled Arcadian warlock has severed our connection,” Naida said, and looked sadly into the pond on the banks of which they stood.

  “I doubt that is the truth. We are on Earth, silly one! In body and mind! We cannot speak through pools or manifest ourselves in the elements while we are whole and on this side of the terrestrial veil. Now, I would see your countenance change. Melancholia was a friend of mine, but she suits you ill.” Minerva smiled, and threw an apple from the tree to Naida, who caught it.

  They had covered many miles, sometimes listening to the stories the rivers told, as it was well known that they carried the tales of all trees that drank from them. Sometimes they were as mice, hearing the humans speak of their woes, rumors of darkness and fierce fighting in the north. They moved on from the pool and the tree, and crossed the land on fleet feet that bounded over fields and villages. While they had no way of knowing exactly where Rinnah and her orchard might be, Minerva was convinced that by following her instincts, she would come across some sign of her.

  Her theory would probably have proven to be more true, but so many fae were now abroad in the land that divining the location of magic and magical beings had become quite troublesome. She was also having problems gathering her bearings in order to pinpoint some of the landmarks she had seen in her vision. There had been a wide land mass that looked like a tidal plain, but it shored up to a very wide river. People traversed the gap by means of a fantastic bridge which was wide and strong enough for wagons and teams of horses to cross it and there seemed to be some sort of holy place there as well. Mists had surrounded it, rolling upriver from the open sea in blankets of thick fog. Behind the fog, a tall citadel had stood shining in the dim sunlight and the apple trees that had surrounded Rinnah’s silver one had stood within those golden city walls.

  With her poor knowledge of Earth, Minerva had left the navigating to Naida but she now had reservations, and guessed correctly that part of their haphazard course and endless meandering was due to Naida’s constant quest for news, any fragment of hearsay that would tell her how her beloved – the one she believed to be Nestaron, the Dragon himself – fared against the combined forces of Mordred, Arcadia and the Unseelie Court combined.

  Minerva feared for her, sure as she was that no mortal man could hope to stand victorious against such a force, less still a boy as young as Rhys. A mere blink of an eye in the life of a fae; that was all he had lived. The world of the fae would continue, she knew, and the realm of men would also go on, one way or another, in darkness or not, in peace or not. She felt most likely not, given the garrulous nature of mankind. To you, I entrust the great quest of our time. The words of Queen Mab came back to her. How long could she bite her tongue and allow Naida to lead? Minerva looked down as they soared between two clouds that bloomed pregnant and gray; the water in them whispered songs of the ocean, of longing to soak into the earth. She saw ragtag bands of men, armed with roughly-hewn swords and pitchforks, the occasional bowman. Her brothers and sisters were clearly hard at work spreading the news of the war to come.
Would it be enough? Minerva found it hard to believe that it would be. She looked back up to Naida, skipping ahead on a breath of air she had asked the wind to blow for them.

  “I’ve seen it, you know; the location of the orchard,” Minerva finally admitted as they soared ahead.

  “What? Why haven’t you said anything?”

  “I saw it in a vision at the Everlasting Pool on the day we left Eon together. I was shown landmarks, things to look for, but I have no idea where in this wretched land to find them, so it’s hardly useful at all.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t know Earth half as well as you do, Naida, and you have a much stronger instinct for things than I do. I didn’t want to dilute that with what I had seen.”

  “I understand. Don’t be worried, my friend. We will find it.”

  Naida thought of nothing more after that; she only listened to the bellows of the north zephyrs. Could she just fly north and see Rhys herself, right now? She would like that more than anything, more than to see Rinnah reveal her orchard. More than life and death and water and earth and fire; she wished that she could, that she did not have this burden. Why had Mab chosen her for this? She was not the most powerful fae; far from it. Wouldn’t the Fire-Drake or the Wisp be a better hunter of a faerie who was legendary for both her terrible prowess and diligent solitude? She flipped onto her back, riding the currents, and dropped like a stone to the ground. She did not know why she decided here was a good place; just that it felt portentous. Below, she saw a copse of trees, which may have been an orchard, in the grounds of a small church where she knew humans liked to gather. She landed as lightly as a grasshopper on wheat, touching down on a single toe. Minerva joined her.

  “What is it, Naida? Do you feel something?” she asked.

  “I can’t say,” said Naida. Looking around they saw the low stones that marked the resting places of the human dead, separated by a wall of rock delineating the graveyard from the orchard, for so the collection of trees indeed were.