“Revenge,” Rhys spat into the dying creature’s face, and pushed his body off his sword. It took a moment, so deeply was the dark elf run through. Broderick trotted closer to him, ignoring the fight for now. The battle had apparently shifted away from them. They were no longer at the center of the clashing armies and when Rhys clambered once again onto Broderick’s back, he saw why. As if from nowhere, Mordred had arrived in full force. As far as Rhys could see, from the shattered wall of Kendal to where the tree line swallowed the south road, there were black banners. Picts, Vikings, Celts, grim twisted goblin-men and dark elves, a host of many thousands was slowly swallowing the few hundreds of loyalist soldiers. The cries of dying men filled the air, and for a moment Rhys thought he could hear Naida’s voice, calling his name. Mordred himself was at the center of this new front, dueling Richard with shield and hammer. Richard fought well, but Mordred was the son of grave magic and the royal blood of the Pendragon line. He was a terrible foe. Richard of Dunmonia fell to the thunderclap of a hammer blow.
“No!” cried Rhys, and spurred his horse on. Foamy spittle flecked Broderick’s mouth as the charger responded to his master’s wishes. They threw themselves again into the fray, knowing that all was lost. Rhys slew and slew, reveling in the murder, determined to sell his life as dearly as possible. Mordred loomed up on his own giant black horse, and their battle was brief. Rhys was too fatigued to face so great a foe as Mordred, resplendent and huge in dark armor and furs. A heavy blow cracked the dragon helm, and Rhys senselessly watched the world begin to fall away from him in slow motion. Another strike and he was unhorsed. Broderick reared and struck out with his foreleg, defending his master. Mordred’s armor rang with the horseshoe’s blow, and then Rhys found himself being dragged away from battle, bouncing and bumping over the charnel ground. His leg felt near to being ripped off, and he had to twist the remains of the dragon helm from his head so he could see. His foot lay trapped in the stirrup, yet when he felt for his sword he realized he had dropped it. Broderick barreled on, spooked by something although Rhys had never seen the horse display such behavior before.
“Broderick, stop! Go back, we must go back!” Rhys cried, but it was no use. Behind them, the army of Mordred finally encircled the loyalist force, and swallowed it. Broderick ran on, heedless to the cries of his master.
Chapter Seven
Kendal, Cumbria, England.
The screams of dying men finally petered out, and Mordred could finally relax a little. The battle had been short, and a bit frustrating, apart from the slaying of the young knight. Of all his opponents that day, only he had been worthy. It had almost been a shame to kill him. Later, he had discovered that his name had been Sir Richard of Dumnonia. The name was meaningless to him. The knight who had charged him on the blown horse and with no strength left but fury still puzzled him. His body was yet to be found, but he surely could not have gotten too far. What a fool he was. Mordred could only pray for a serious opponent further south.
“Sire, we have counted the bodies,” a sergeant at arms said at his elbow. Mordred had quite forgotten himself, eyes closed, on the back of his mount. He opened his eyes and looked down at the sergeant. The man was bleeding from several light wounds, and one eye was bruised half-shut underneath his cheap iron half helm. No matter, there would be plenty of better equipment to be taken from the dead. “Yes, O’Donnell. How did we fare?” Mordred said. The key aspect about a long campaign was to keep your own army fit and ready to fight, while keeping casualties to a minimum. The Celts, Picts and Vikings, while not being entirely expendable, were warriors to be let loose rather than ordered into pitched battle. His personal guard and company of men-at-arms, known as the Company of the King, were limited in number but highly trained. Those he would need at his side, aid from the Arcadian Lord, Oberon, or nay. The sergeant cleared his throat and read from a tattered parchment.
“The Pictland clans, two hundred and fifty dead, one hundred maimed. The Company of the King, three and eighty dead, twelve maimed. The Celtic clans, four and ninety dead, twenty maimed. Ragnar Lodbrok’s Vikings, thirty dead, no maimed.” That was typical of the Vikings, never ones to allow a mere maiming to get in the way of a glorious death. O’Donnell went on, “Sven Bossig’s Vikings, eight and eighty dead, no maimed. They were the Vikings, my lord, which Erandur sent out to attract the Camelot force closer to the walls of Kendal. None survived.”
Mordred looked down on the sergeant with a displeased countenance that encouraged the man to continue. Sometimes, men had to be sacrificed for the larger victory.
“Finally, Sire, The Nineteenth Covenant of The Dark Elves lost fifty, and thirteen maimed. Included among the dead is the elvish king, Erandur himself. Reports say that he was slain by the Dragon Knight in single combat.” The sergeant’s voice dropped to a near whisper. The battle prowess of Erandur was legendary, and although the sergeant could only guess as to the existence of Arcadia, he had seen the dark elf king in combat.
“The Dragon Knight, you say? No wonder the whelp was so tired when I crushed his helm with my hammer!” Mordred laughed, and the hint of madness in it poured ice down O’Donnell’s back.
“How did our foes fare, O’Donnell?” Mordred inquired.
“Our… foes, Sire? They were wiped out and put to death, Sire…” O’Donnell groped for the meaning to his master’s words. Mordred looked exasperated. Of course he knew the rank and file soldiers were slain to a man.
“The knights, man! What about the whore-son knights? Where are they? What were their names? Do the heralds not know?” Mordred slammed his mighty mailed fist onto his thigh plate. Metal clanged in the quiet air of the battlefield. O’Donnell cowered before his king. His rages were terrible, and it was not unknown for Mordred to slay men who gave him news he did not wish to hear. He girded his loins and spoke with as much bravery as he could.
“My liege, beg your pardon. The noble enemy dead are as follows. Derrick of Liverpool, slain by Erandur. Henry of Kendal, slain by Erandur. Owen of Nottingham, slain by…” Mordred cut him off with a bellow.
“Gods, enough about Erandur! He is dead.”
“Yes, yes, Sire. My apologies. That was… the last knight slain by the… Dark Elves’ king, as I was saying. Richard of Dumnonia, slain by Mordred, King of England.” O’Donnell finished, and rolled up his parchment.
“That’s it? What about the others? The other knights? There were six in total. Eight, including the two that held Kendal, yes? While I think of it, why haven’t we found this thrice-cursed Dragon Knight who slew the drow king?” Mordred spat his words out in a rage, and O’Donnell took two quick steps backward.
“There were no other bodies found, Sire. I must confess I thought I saw more knights than we found bodies for. What do you suppose happened to them?”
Mordred scowled. He had the feeling that O’Donnell was mocking him. No matter. He would most likely die in the coming campaign, in any case. Soon he would be seated on the throne at Camelot, with a court of wise men to give him counsel, and he would have no more need for a halfwit sergeant like this man. He spoke to his sergeant no more, and rode away on his horse, toward where the motley colors of his army were being reformed into ranks, ready to march. There were still several thousands of his men, some borrowed, some mercenary, some allied forces though they may be. If Arthur could only send children dressed as knights and five hundred spearmen to bring him to task, the journey south would be simplicity itself. He rode to the head of the army and addressed them. There was a smattering of cheers at his appearance from the Company of the King, but the Picts, Celts, Vikings and dark elves regarded him with near indifference.
“My friends, the spine of Arthur’s army is broken! We ride south! South, to Camelot, and glory!”
***
The knights that Mordred had misplaced would not appear anywhere on the battle field. Nor would they appear anywhere in the north of England, nor in the south. John of Leeds had been about to be struck down by one of the five Vi
kings surrounding him, when in a trice he had disappeared completely, armor and all. The Vikings had looked at each other in fear at such witchcraft, and decided not to speak of it. Gawain of Sheffield had bravely slain a dozen Celts, ridden his charger away from battle to pick up a lance that was sticking out of the ground at just the right angle, and similarly vanished. There were no eyes watching him, however. As for Thomas of Manchester, he had been in the thickest of the fighting when all combatants near him went temporarily blind. When they recovered their sight, it was as if each man had been staring too long at the sun; the golden haired knight they had been fighting was simply gone.
The knights themselves awoke in a white place. There appeared to be no ground, no sky, and nothing to see. Their armor was still with them, and Thomas, John and Gawain could see each other. Save for that small mercy, there was nothing. The noble warriors looked at each other with trepidation, and immediately set about trying to understand what had happened to them.
Chapter Eight
Avalon
Far from the trials that beset the land to the far north, Avalon lay shrouded in morning mists. No danger had ever befallen this benighted isle, and it seemed unlikely to Erasmus that it ever would. The magic of the land was, so it was said, completely impenetrable. Despite his safety, and also despite the preservative qualities of Avalon that allowed men to live far greater spans of life than would be possible anywhere else, Erasmus felt fearful, and tired.
No word had come back from the Sons of the Round Table for some weeks, although there had been rumors at market passed on by someone who had spoken to someone who knew a sailor. Faugh, he thought. There could be an army on the doorstep of Avalon and they could never find it, but that made the people indifferent and prone to gossip. He was walking along the shore of the mainland, having made the short row across the lake. With Rhys away at the war against the fiend Mordred, there seemed little and less for him to do. A few days had passed since the arrival of the Thirteenth Glastenning, and while all Avalon had turned out to welcome Glynnis, Aelwyd and Cadwynn, Erasmus took no pleasure in the parade, the welcome feasts, the ceremony. He had sat glumly through the formal acceptance of the three nervous looking girls by Morgan le Fae, the transfer of the protection of Avalon, and such niceties.
Erasmus could not rest, could not enjoy himself. He found himself stalking the corridors of the castle at night, unable to sleep. Rhys was never far from his heart.
“Damn it boy, why don’t you send word?” he would mutter, over and over. Almost without noticing, he found that he had wandered to the pool where Rhys’ love, Naida, was to leave her messages for him. The pool was lush as always, imbued – as it no doubt was – with faerie magic. Birdsong filled the air, and a sense of relaxation came over him that was not of his own heart’s doing. The whys and wherefores of how the faefolk played with the emotions of men was quite beyond him, but for the first time in what felt like the hundred years since Rhys had sallied north, Erasmus felt the weight lift from his shoulders.
“Thank you, whoever you are,” he said. It was undoubtedly a muse or a nymph casting a spell upon him, and he was glad. His eyes felt heavy, and the weariness in his bones seemed lightened; he had been so tired of late that even the state of fatigue had kept him awake, night after night. Partly, he knew, it was the strain of his warrior’s heart not being involved in the war against Mordred. Partly, it was something else. He felt a failure. He had sworn to send messages between Naida and Rhys, but with no messages appearing at the tree by this very pool, what could he do?
In the absence of any answers from the quiet pool, Erasmus gave in to the tiredness, lay down by the still, clear waters, and was asleep in moments. He awoke in a place that was entirely unfamiliar. Erasmus was sure that he was not dreaming, as dreams did not have such alertness. He felt awake, energized again, as if the woes of his life belonged to someone else. A practical man, he had not usually put much faith in the soothsayers who would interpret your dreams for a penny; for Erasmus, dreams meant nothing, or everything. If a dream was a portent of the future, one would soon know about it.
The place where he awoke was a realm of golden whiteness, and for a moment, he considered the possibility he might be dead. In the minstrel tales, this surely is what the poetic souls spoke about. It seemed like a place where one could happily wait out existence, or non-existence, as the case may be, for an eternity. There were three figures, seemingly far away. Erasmus tried calling to them, but they didn’t appear to hear him at all. He found it difficult to make out their shapes, as if they were being viewed through a heavy veil.
“Erasmus of Avalon, hail and well met,” a feminine voice purred, and the voice seemed to bring echoes of whispered repetition.
“Who said that?” Erasmus said. “Show yourself to me. I am no danger to you!” The voice had apparently come from thin air. Now it giggled girlishly. “No, you are no danger to me, but you are in danger, Erasmus of Avalon. Alarum! Alarum!”
“Danger? What danger? Where am I?” Erasmus turned about, looking for who he was speaking to. “You are safe, Erasmus of Avalon,” the voice said.
“Safe now? Pray, make up your mind! Am I in danger, or am I safe?”
“Safe here, yes, safe here,” the voice whispered, close enough to be right behind his ear. “But Avalon is in mortal peril. Alarum, Erasmus. The Sons are undone! Alarum! Mordred is come!”
“The Sons! Rhys!” Erasmus exclaimed. “Tell me, creature, sprite, fae or devil though thou may be; what transpires?”
The voice ignored him. “Raise the banners of Avalon, Erasmus! She has slept too long! Raise the banners, ride for Camelot, Mordred is come, the Sons are undone!”
Erasmus was about to reply, but instead he awoke at the pool, returned to the human realm once again. “Damn, damn you all to hellfire!” he shouted to no one. He was alone, but it felt a little better to vent his frustrations. He stomped away from the idyll, headed back to the boat. He had some tough words to find, and a Glastenning Sisterhood; nay, two Glastennings, to convince to take up arms in war.
***
Kenilwurt, Worwick’s Shire, England.
“It has begun, Lady Mother,” Mucuruna said softly as her mother-in-law entered the parlor and took a seat by the roaring fire.
“I know this well, child,” she replied without taking her eyes from the flames. “I also know that your daughters are safe but are nonetheless marching toward the battlefield at Camelot with Morgana, Morgause and Elaine. Erasmus, as well.”
“Irelli!” Mucuruna exclaimed as she fell to her knees beside the older woman’s chair. “Will they be alright? What of Rhys? Have you seen him? Is he alive?”
“Many of the boys perished at Kendal, my daughter, but Rhys was not one of them. Even now, Lady Nottingham is opening up her home to the mothers and relatives of the fallen boys. We should ride north to her assistance; she needs our help more than we know.”
“I don’t want to leave Worwick’s Shire,” she replied.
“Oh, but you will, my dear,” came a deep voice from the doorway behind them.
Both women turned to see Gwallawc and Anlawdd stepping into the room.
“In times of war, even more so than in times of peace, the families of England must bond together and support each other. Lady Nottingham has nothing left now, but hopes that her husband will return from his campaigns overseas. Even those hopes are slight since if he returns now, there may still be many battles to fight and she could still yet lose him in one of them.”
At that moment Anlawdd spoke up. “I have prepared a train of supplies to reinforce our lady’s chattel. There are to be no arguments from you two. Be ready to ride to Nottingham at daybreak. I will consult with her brother, Lord Grantham, while you offer assistance and condolences to the lady at the loss of her only son. Gwallawc will stay here to mind the estate and keep the news moving. He will rally the bannermen, should Worwick’s Shire be called to arms for Arthur.”
“Yes, sir,” was the unanimous re
ply.
Chapter Nine
Cumbria, England.
He felt kisses on his face; wet, slobbering and with breath that stank of animal. His head felt split by thunder, and yet he was quite sure he had not died. Through his eyelids he saw the pink glow of sunlight, and felt a light breeze over his skin. Surely, if he was dead, he could not feel such a sweet breeze? Rhys opened his eyes a crack, wincing as light filled him, paining him as if he had imbibed too much mead. Rhys looked up into the muzzle of Broderick. The horse had his lips to his cheek, and was smacking soft whickering noises in his ear. Groggily, Rhys put a hand up to touch his horse; his savior no doubt.
“I am glad to see you, friend. Now, where have you run me off to this time?” he said softly. Rhys raised his head and body, rolling over in the grass to better facilitate his movements. He was still wearing his armor and felt greatly fatigued, so his movements came at a large price of energy and grunted effort. Eventually, he flopped over in a clatter of dented steel. Rhys first thought that he had somehow been transported to the glade where he had first encountered his lady, Naida of Eon. The sensation was so strong, he nearly called out her name, but he caught himself. He did not know where he was, but he did know that there had been a battle and that his army had lost. That meant the land around him may well be crawling with Mordred’s soldiers, hunting him down. Then he remembered Richard, and Owen of Nottingham. Mercy; that they had died and he had lived, felt so unfair. Rhys wept, and was still weeping when he heard a voice that was at once thunderous and gentle.
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