Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy

by Steve Rollins

  “Rinnah! Guardian of the Orchard! Come out to me. My name is Naida of Mab’s own Brannon vuin,” Naida sang, in her high sweet voice. There was no answer. The church seemed deserted; no priest or man stirred.

  “Do you hear that?” said Minerva. Naida took her meaning right away.

  “There’s no sound. No birdsong, even the leaves are silent. You are wise to the speech of insects; are there any of their songs to hear?” Naida turned on the spot, suddenly filled with trepidation.

  “Nothing. I do not think this is Rinnah’s Orchard, cousin. I fear we are in grave danger here.” Minerva took Naida’s hand gently. “Let us leave immediately and be gone from this place!”

  Naida made to answer, but her voice stopped in her throat. Stepping out from behind a gravestone that could not possibly have hidden its whole form was a terror that stilled the blood in her veins. It was a cambion, she knew. She felt Minerva stiffen with fear; there were few things that could harm faefolk, no mortal blade for sure. A cambion was no mortal and bore no blades, but it was one creature that could annihilate a faery with one well-placed spell.

  “Fear not, fae-childer, I will do you no harm, yes-sss?” The cambion slunk toward them, and Minerva and Naida stepped back. The low wall between them would not hold the creature up for longer than a second if he chose to strike.

  “We trust your words not, snake!” cried Minerva, braver than she felt. “We know your master; we know what you are here for. You bring death, trouble and woe! Step away, and leave us be.”

  The cambion feigned a wound at the words.

  “I have no quarrel with Eon, nor with the great Queen Mab. I merely by chance happened to be walking in the cool sss-shade of these graves when you happened upon my repose. I care not for the wars of men, but I am wondering; what brings two fae, wingless babes as such, to Earth during these times of strife? Tell friend Anebos; perhaps he can help.” He mewled his words sweetly, this creature, in an attempt at a coquettish manner that brought revulsion to Minerva’s stomach. The wight stepped another foot closer, and put his hand on the wall in an utterly menacing and yet relaxed manner.

  “Anebos, wight, cambion and most loathed, feeder on death and skulked of form, leave us be, or by our power we shall crush you,” Minerva hissed her words through her teeth. She was sure that the villain meant to deal them death.

  Naida steadied her hand and whispered to her friend. “What if he can help us? He passes through shadows, fire and blood. He may have seen… her. Or even him!”

  Minerva took her meaning, but was too slow to quiet Naida’s excited hope, or warn her that a cambion had the ears of a dozen foxes. Anebos smiled, all fangs and venom. “Help you, yes, I can help you find your lost loves, yes? For that is who you seek. A lady you search for, yes-sss, and a boy to whom this purple-eyed pretty is sworn? I see many things, faerie girls. I see the truth in things and the lies in others, the right and the wrong and the good and the bad. I know whom you seek, and I have seen them both, oh yes-sss.”

  “You lie!” screeched Minerva, and with her free hand, she took the forgotten song of a sleeping toad and shaped it into an arrow of wind. She did not unleash it, but held the air-dart over her head, ready to strike. Naida broke away from contact with her.

  “Minerva, hold! Do not loose it!” she cried. “Monster, speak the truth to us and let us go in peace. What do you know of the Orchard?”

  Minerva’s heart sank. Naida, you fool!

  “This is not the place we seek, Naida. I don’t see any wide river with the remarkable bridge; in fact, there isn’t a river for miles. We should also be closer to the sea and there certainly isn’t any fog or shining city either.”

  “You saw all those things?” Naida asked.

  Minerva nodded, not wanting to reveal anything more in the presence of the foul being. The cambion cackled and hackled with glee. Minerva knew well enough that you could never put trust in those beings that life itself had rejected, but Naida was too young, too naïve and too in love to take heed of the danger. The cambion sat on the wall, but neither of the two faeries saw him move. He was mere feet from them now, still relaxed as an adder is relaxed when the field mouse steps on his tail.

  “Orchard, yes, my pretties, the orchard of Rinnah I have seen. Your human love I have seen, I have seen many things. Would you see him first, or her? I wonder which you would choose. What if you could sss-see one, but not the other?” He flipped his hand from palm facing down to facing up to illustrate. “I could show you one, and you would be joined in the twitch of a tail.”

  Minerva felt Naida’s heart leap, and saw her take a step forward toward the uncanny deathless fiend. She seemed entranced, her violet eyes locked to his red ones, and then she realized the trap that they had fallen into. There was no time to warn Naida that the creature had subtly hexed her, that he had hooked her mind with his devious spell. She gathered her wind arrow and flung it with all her fury and protection. Anebos’ eyes glinted and in the palm of his hand there was a wall of fire that swallowed the arrow and used its air to fuel it higher, but his spell on Naida was broken. Minerva wasted no time, and leapt forward, clutching Naida’s hand and with all her strength, propelling her into the sky, returning her to the care of the winds.

  “Remember what you are looking for, Naida,” she called after her.

  Naida looked down as she rose into the air, her senses returning to her. The cambion’s words had felt so soothing. How desperate she had been to find Rinnah and to see her beloved Rhys again. Then, she screamed in terror and agony as she saw the black shape of Anebos fall. Minerva had left herself entirely open to attack in order to save Naida from certain death, and now she was to take her place. The wicked fangs of Anebos fell, and the sparkling blood of a faerie fell on Earth for the first time in centuries.

  Chapter Six

  Cumbria, England

  The army of Camelot marched through the day and through the night. Rest was scarce, and the mood was grim. The sky, while not making a return to the torrential rain that had plagued the journey north, remained foreboding and full of ominous blackened clouds. As they traveled, Rhys saw even more peasants and villagers retreating south, fleeing the advance of Mordred’s armies with the scant possessions they could salvage and carry on their pack animals and on their own backs. It was a grim sight, and the occasional friar they passed blessed the soldiers, as if they were already amongst the dead. A few men with strength in their arms and pride in their hearts left the ranks of the refugees and took up arms with Rhys’ retinue, swelling their numbers slightly as they went.

  At midday on the second day, the advance scouts reported that the villages surrounding Kendal had been put to the torch. Nothing stirred, as if the north had been scoured of every little thing. Not even carrion birds had been seen. The column moved on and made their camp the second night a morning’s ride away from Kendal, the better to gather their forces and form into regiments.

  Soon, the dawn broke bright and clear. Rhys dressed in the padded jerkin he usually wore under his armor, drew back the flaps of his tent and stopped in his tracks, words forming on his lips but none uttered. Standing in the circle made by the tents of the Sons of the Round Table, just by the fire upon which Richard of Dumnonia’s squire had cooked a brace of pheasant the evening before, was an elderly man clad in a deep gray cowl. His beard was long, and the purest white; and he stood with the assistance of a long oak staff, gnarled and curled at the topmost end. He regarded Rhys with an utterly emotionless gaze which betrayed nothing about his thoughts, but made Rhys feel as if he were some small mouse who had foolishly caught the attention of a great owl. From the corner of his eye, he saw Richard similarly emerge from his tent, stretching and yawning, stripped to the waist.

  “What ho!” he said, waking up rapidly at the uncommon visitor’s appearance. “Say, fellow, this is no place for an old man. This army rides to battle this day. Do you not know what has transpired?”

  The old man did not take his eyes from Rhys,
but spoke in a clear baritone voice that showed none of the decrepitude of his ancient years.

  “Battle, faugh. War? Hmm. Bad business. What do you boys know of war? To ride into battle without knowledge is to swim with an anvil around the neck. Kendal is gone, boy. Do you not know this already?” His eyes bored into Rhys’ skull, but with a great effort, Rhys managed to stand up straight and close his gaping mouth.

  “Well then, Kendal must be avenged!” cried Richard, and the noise of his exclamation brought Gawain and John out of their own shelters. They did not speak, but regarded the interaction with interest.

  “Aye, Kendal must be avenged,” Rhys agreed, “but our visitor is correct. We do not know what forces await us.”

  Richard was about to speak, anger writ on his face. Rhys held up his hand to stop his words. “Peace, cousin. Whether we know what lies ahead of us or not, our honor demands that we ride this very moment to avenge fair Kendal, and know the fate of our brothers Sir Derrick and Sir Henry. What business do you have with us, old man, that you interrupt the sons of the Knights of Arthur’s Round Table from their just revenge?”

  The old man leaned on his staff, pointing his beaked face like a hawk at Rhys. His steel gray eyes locked with Rhys’ green, and when he spoke, it was as the thunder itself, though his mouth barely moved.

  “I am older than you can possibly know, Sir Rhys of Gascogne, nephew of Caradoc, son of Gwallawc, grandson of Anlawdd.” His booming voice appeared to only be present in Rhys’ own mind, as Richard, Gawain and John seemed barely to move, barely to even breathe. Rhys was forced to his knees by the sonic assault. “In the time before times I was old, and I have come before you now to bring you words of fell terror. You must not ride to Kendal. Your quest is not with your brother knights, noble though they may be. Though you are but a babe in arms, it is sure that you are Nestaron, The Warrior of The Tree, Elf-bane, Bow Master, Lover of the Fae Grove. Do you understand? Seek the Orchard of Rinnah, and end this doomed journey. I, Merlin of the Seventh Star, command thee.” The booming voice faded, and the world breathed again. Rhys felt a terror and pain in his chest, and then Richard was helping him to his feet.

  “Rhys, are you well? You seem sick, as if a shade has fallen on your heart,” he said, concerned.

  Rhys’ voice came in a whispered, cracked croak like dried leaves.

  “The old man, he…” His words failed him. Richard looked at him as if he had lost his wits entirely.

  “Old man? What old man do you speak of? The oldest soldier we have is no more than nine and thirty.”

  Rhys pointed his hand to where Merlin had stood, but when his eyes found the spot, Merlin had gone. It was if he had never stood there, and evidently Richard had no memory of speaking to the most powerful wizard of all time. He lowered his hand, unsure what to say. Fortunately, Richard had other things on his mind.

  “Dreams are well enough, Rhys. Today we make deeds to fill the dreams of a land. To battle we ride!”

  “To battle,” Rhys said, feeling quite ill.

  ***

  Kendal, Cumbria, England.

  The army reached Kendal at noon, and the sight of the broken, defiled walls was terrible indeed. The army was arrayed itself into two regiments, flanking the mounted knights. Their pennants flew from the tips of their lances, displaying the colors of the towns they hailed from and the gold streamer of Camelot. The soldiers of the line bore their battle standards; different colored tabards from all the various liege lords adorned them. Though many of their greatest warriors were abroad with King Arthur putting the Romans and Gauls to flight, it was a stern force of men, disciplined and ready for battle.

  “Look there!” shouted Sir Gawain. “To the west! Viking raiders retreat!”

  Rhys looked, and it was true. A gate had opened on the west wall, which was mostly destroyed in any case. Several score of Vikings bearing axes and short swords were exiting the town, no doubt headed back to their long ships. The warriors from the north ran past the towering sentinels that were two trebuchet of prodigious size, but did not appear to see the forces of Camelot at all. Blood rose in Rhys’ ears, and he spurred Broderick forward. The great charger clanked with his armor as his rider, the surrogate son of King Arthur, turned and addressed the force before him. Though the vision of Merlin was still rooted in his mind, his words were meaningless now. Nestaron. Orchard. Bow Master. What meaning could they have; how could he leave his brothers and abandon his duty?

  “Knights, soldiers of the realm, Kendal lays raped before you. We cannot allow this! We drive this scum back into the sea! We retake fair Kendal, and put to death any who remain within and defile her with their presence! For King Arthur! For Camelot! Charge, in the name of your fathers!”

  There was a great roar from the soldiers, and Rhys wheeled about to join the leaping horses of his brothers. The thunder of hooves filled the air, louder even than the words of Merlin that same morning. The soldiers ran on foot, but were soon left behind the charge of the young knights. As they approached, the Vikings saw them come, and were dismayed. Many turned to level weapons at the knights, but without pikes or spears to fend off the charge the morale of their kin wavered. Half began to flee, to be whipped back into line by their grim captains. The charge crushed the Viking shield wall in a spray of shattering lances, splintered wood, flying hooves and cleaved helms. Rhys lanced a brutish warrior squarely in the throat, the man died wordlessly as Broderick leaped and powered into his enemies, hooves lashing out to cave in skulls. Rhys threw his ruined lance down, and drew his sword. The midday sun gleamed on the blade as he slashed here and there; blows were fended off by war axes, but the skill of the knights was too great for the un-mounted reavers.

  Though they were but six knights, the Viking force was reduced to only half their number before the wave of foot soldiers arrived and put the last of them to the spear. The battle ended with the last warrior cut down by Richard in hot gouts of blood. Silence fell. There were no cheers, this was no victory; merely the beginning of retribution to come. Rhys pushed up the visor on his dragon helm. No knight had fallen to the axes of the Vikings, and it appeared that there were only light injuries to the rank and file men. He spurred Broderick to where Richard was delivering mercy to his fatally wounded opponent. His sword flashed, and the man moaned no more. The glory of battle pumped in Rhys’ veins, he felt ready to fight again, to kill again.

  “Ho, Richard! Do you feel we children are blooded now? We are triumphant! Onward, to Kendal!”

  Rhys’ words were premature. Spilling out of the Kendal’s west gate was a host of black garbed warriors, supported by very many, that were by his judgment, men of Celtic and Pictish blood.

  “Looks like these fellows would give us battle before we see Kendal, my brother,” Richard said, and slammed his visor shut. “We shall meet them then! Revenge, my kinsmen!”

  The knights reformed, without their lances this time. The soldiers hastily made their formations once again, although they were not as tight and not as fine looking as before, sprayed as they were with the blood of their Viking foes. The dark host approached, and Rhys saw the ashen gray pallor, the red eyes and high helms of their warriors.

  “Hells teeth!” he cursed. “What manner of men are these?”

  No one answered him, and in moments, the battle was joined anew. The warriors fought more fiercely than the Vikings, and there were far more of them. At least as many as the forces of Camelot were engaged in battle, and as Rhys hacked and slashed, more seemed to be joining the fray. The gray-skinned creatures fought with vigor and wickedly curved blades. A crashing blow struck Rhys in the breastplate, and he was nearly dismounted. The warrior he was engaged with sliced at his suddenly exposed throat, and then he was gone as Sir Owen thundered into the ranks atop his beautiful white steed. The knight slew another, and another, and it seemed as if the white Knight of Nottingham would surely defeat this force alone.

  And then, he fell from his horse. Rhys did not see how it was done, and a moment
later the white horse also fell to enemy swords, whinnying and screaming. Standing over Sir Owen was a warrior; by his fine black and deep green armor, it was clear that he was the master of this army. He carried a spear with twin blades, and his eyes were bloody murder. He looked at Rhys, inviting the charge. The end of his spear plunged downwards, and Owen’s armor split asunder. The knight moved slightly against the weight, and then was still.

  “I am Erandur, King of the Dark Elves,” the warrior said in a voice of poison and nightmares. “I bring death for you, Rhys of Gascogne.”

  “I am Sir Rhys, Son of the Round Table. I come to avenge Sir Owen, to avenge Sir Henry and Sir Derrick. Prepare yourself!” Rhys shouted the last as he spurred Broderick into a charge.

  The battle swam around Rhys and Erandur as they dueled. There was no doubt that the Drow-King was a warrior unlike any other; his spear not only kept Rhys at bay atop his horse, but darted out like a snake to strike down any foot soldier foolish enough to get too close. A streaking blow toppled Rhys from Broderick’s back, but he landed somehow on his knees and managed to raise his burnished shield in time to fend off a strike that would have disemboweled him. The spear clanged again off his shield, and then Erandur reversed his grip and sent the other end of the spear flying to Rhys’ right. Rhys parried and stepped closer. Erandur was still out of reach of his long sword, but so long as Rhys had his shield-strength, it was an impasse.

  He heard words that made no sense shouted from behind him. “Mordred’s banner! Alarum! Awake, Sons of Camelot!”

  It sounded like Richard, or it could have been Gawain. He could not look away from his opponent, who slew a yeoman trying to take him unawares from behind. Erandur didn’t even need to look around to know where the man was, and with a swipe of the bladed haft he favored, the man’s head fell clear from his shoulders. This was Rhys’ chance, he realized. The spear was pointed away from him for the briefest moment, and he leapt forward, pinning the haft with his heavily armored right foot. The blade stuck in the turf underfoot, and with a bellowed roar of fatigue, revenge and hatred, he plunged his sword into Erandur’s chest. The Drow-King gaped uncomprehendingly. It had never occurred to him that this boy playing at being a knight might kill him. The Drow-King’s heart struck two more beats, and then it was still.