“Weep ye not, Rhys of Gascogne. You know that there are other worlds than this, and death is but another part of the wheels we call life,” the voice said. Rhys leapt to his feet, fatigue forgotten, clutching for his sword. He remembered then that he had lost it in the battle, and made to use his heavy steel gauntlets as weapons instead. He lowered them only a little, when he saw who was speaking.
“Merlin,” he said flatly, “I have little care for your sorcerer’s ways this day.” The wizard was dressed as he was the morning of the battle when he had appeared to Rhys at the campsite.
His eyes, however, were softer, sadder, even compassionate. “Rhys, the battle was never one you could win. For that, I am sorry,” Merlin said, and the thunder in his voice was gone. He sounded like an old man; if he had never spoken with the anvil of Thor behind his voice, Rhys would have considered him a kindly dotard.
“Sorry?” Rhys spat. “Richard and Owen are slain, along with no doubt scores, nay, hundreds of brave men who fought for Arthur. Where was he? Where were you? Thrice damn you, where are you now, and for that matter, where am I?” Rage and grief overcame him, and he sank back to his knees. Merlin still had the look of insufferable kindness in his eyes.
“Aye, sorry. We did not know that Arcadia had broken their covenant with Eon, and was aiding Mordred. Without Oberon’s aid, he would never have been so bold as to strike Kendal; yea, without Oberon and Erandur, Kendal could have stood against his motley band of mercenaries for weeks, instead of hours. We were blind to this treachery.”
Rhys nodded dumbly, but took no succor from hearing that his quest had been doomed from the start.
“Aye, blind. And now, we fall to rack and ruin! All is lost, and all is death. I fear I am the last knight of our party yet alive. What can one knight yet do against the armies of Mordred and Arcadia combined? It is lost. The land is lost, and I seek only death.”
“Death comes to all,” Merlin said. “Even I do not live forever, and nor should I wish to. But a man should not wish for death before his time. You are not the last of the Sons; three more, I pulled out of your world, and into another. They are being well cared for by friends, until they have healed and are needed once more. Friends that we share, Rhys. I believe you have had some contact with them before?” Merlin’s eyes twinkled, and as Rhys looked, a spark of light left the magician’s eye, grew larger until it was a glowing disc three spans of his hand across. The portal shimmered with many gold and azure sunbeams, coalescing into an image that moved and danced as if alive. The picture showed clearly three knights, sat together at a feasting table. They looked battered and bruised, and dour of face, but alive. Gawain of Sheffield, John of Leeds and Thomas of Manchester were being tended and fed by winged beings of impossible beauty the likes of which he had come to learn well.
“They live? How is this possible? Nay, wizard, stay your words. I wonder not. But I thank you. It gladdens my heart to know that not all my brothers fell to the axe. Still, I fear they may have to stay where they are for all eternity, as England will not be safe for any knight of the table to ride for a long time.”
Merlin leaned on his staff, and smiled gently. “I realize my timing was poor, asking you to quit on the eve of battle; but I had only just been informed of the grander game at play. Do you remember the words I spoke to you?”
Rhys sucked his teeth. He wished that he could hear nothing more of the schemes of wizards and fae, kings and usurpers, but he found he could recall some of what he had been told despite the blows to the skull he had received. “Something about a Nestaron, whatever one of those might be, and an orchard.”
“There are some friends, Rhys, who believe that it is you who is the Nestaron. Lhûgernil. The one who will heal the Lifetree. I don’t know if you are or not. I think that it is possible that this is true, but there are many things that are true and false at the same time.” Merlin stroked his beard and stepped forwards. “Come, you no longer need this war plate. The battles you have ahead are of a different comportment.”
The wizard waved his hand, and Rhys was stunned to see his armor melt away into nothingness, as slowly as mist receded from the lake on the shores of Avalon. He found when it disappeared, he was no longer wearing the padded jerkin and breeches he had worn before putting on his plate, but fine cloth of crimson, embroidered with gold stitching and bearing the crest of a sea green dragon coiling around a silver tree on the breast. It was not a design he was familiar with; the dragon was the crest of his house, but that was draco rampant. This beast was at bay, at once looking as if it was preparing to defend the tree through which it wound its long body, and at the same time about to constrict and crush the willowy trunk. On his left arm lay a silver wrought archer’s vambrace, bearing the same sigil.
“What is this?” Rhys said, “My bow remained at camp before battle. No doubt it has been taken as trophy by some Viking or Pict by now.” As he said the words though, he felt something wooden and finely carved appear in his right hand. He had not been aware of forming the fingers in a grip. It was his bow, his own bow, and laid before him were the arrows his mother had presented him with, though the arrowheads now shone with a brilliance no mortal arrow had ever possessed before.
Merlin simply smiled, though his eyes had lost their kindness and returned to the color of steel, of castle stone. “You must find Rinnah, the guardian of the Orchard. All other desires are second to this quest. You must take her challenge, and do what no other mortal has ever done before. This I know. If you fail in this quest, ever more fell creatures will cross over to England. The elves and goblins are but the start, and the least of the devilry Oberon has a mind to put in play.”
Rhys looked, uncomprehending. “What has an orchard to do with the war against Mordred? Apples against swords; this is a bad jest, wizard.” This was the wrong choice of words, Rhys knew, and the wizard had a graveled voice when he replied. He took several heartbeats to speak, and Rhys felt chastened as if by his own grandfather.
“Mordred is a pawn in a battle for dominance between powers he has little understanding of. He has accepted the aid of Arcadia, who for long has been under covenant with Queen Mab of Eon not to interfere with events in our realm, as they would once do. Though they broke their oath, their lord Oberon has grown too strong to be shackled as he once was. Oberon sees in Mordred a way to clear the land of all those who would aid Eon in the real war to come.” Merlin paced as he spoke, reminding Rhys of every one of his tutors from when he was a boy. “Once Mordred has the throne, there will be passages between Arcadia and England about the land. The denizens of that fell reality will feast on the blood, the pain and torture of every innocent man and woman you have ever known, and many more besides. And then, oh then, I fear for all. The power they will then possess, why, they could invade Eon itself, sink Avalon beneath the waves, bring heaven itself crashing down. Oberon means to become a god, and with his agent Mordred doing his bidding in this madness, it is likely he will succeed. Unless you, Rhys, son of Gwallawc, stop him.” Merlin ceased his pacing, and turned to look at the young knight.
Rhys looked up, his green eyes meeting the gray. His hair was still matted with blood and sweat, and hung limply and plastered to his face in parts. He felt far from the hero required to save not just his homeland, but reality itself. “And to prevent this evil, I have to find an orchard?” Rhys said. He felt stupid beyond words that he was unable to catch on to Merlin’s words.
“This is a fae legend, involving their Lifetree and the reincarnation of a hero who must heal it. I must confess, though I am learned in the arts of magic and the history of many worlds, I lack the poetry to do the tale of Nestaron justice. Perhaps the words would be taken to your heart, if they came from the lips of another?”
Merlin clutched up his staff without waiting for answer, and thrust it to the sky in a storm of lightning and rainbows that scared Broderick near close to rout. There was no noise, no thunderclap to accompany the dizzying pyrotechnics; instead the lightning was cau
ght by Merlin’s outstretched hand and shaped with deft and mysterious gestures into a many stranded ball, which grew and pulsed as he set it down on the ground. As if from very far away, Rhys heard a beautiful voice, the likes of which he had never heard before. The owner was clearly female and possessed of such heart breaking song he felt he would weep.
Eternal Branch, come back to us,
Nestaron calls, the last of us
Rinnah we beseech thee, give up your duty
Our need is great, O Titan’s favor
The Dragon must be born from the womb of mankind
Faelight must illuminate his heart, guide his mind
His teeth are death, it is all he knows
His breath must be life
Or Galasriniel, Poor Galasriniel
Dies with all her kind
The song ended, and Rhys found his eyes were closed, and fresh tears moistened his cheek. He knew now exactly what he must do; somehow the song had written his path across his heart. To his shame, he was afraid to take on such responsibility alone.
“My love, you are not alone.”
Though he had not spoken his thoughts, Rhys heard them answered by a voice he never thought to hear again. He opened his eyes, and where the woven ball of lightning had been, there stood Naida, beautiful and real, violet eyed and fair of face. She smiled, and Rhys felt gladness in his soul that he did not have the words to express.
Merlin, however, was gone.
Chapter Ten
Gaul, Western Empire of Rome
Across the narrow, turbulent waters that separate England from Gaul, in the ruins of what once was the most western outpost of the 19th Legion of Rome, Merlin appeared once again. So used to the comings and goings of the old sage were the Knights of the Round Table that none of them were even remotely unsettled by it any more. One moment there was an empty chair set next to that occupied by King Arthur, and the next there was Merlin, sitting in it as if he had been there all along. Around the large and portable replica of the original round table sat the knights in counsel with their liege. Sir Lancelot du Lake sat there, with his son, the perfect knight Sir Galahad, who, after braving the Siege Perilous, would soon depart to seek the Grail. Arthur’s cousin, Sir Cador too there sat, long gray beard slowly turning to white. Sir Tristan, the great archer, drank from a golden goblet he had found bearing inscriptions from olden Greece and brave Sir Lamorak, quick to anger and great of strength. Sir Sagramor, Sir Tom a’Lincoln and Sir Bors the Younger rounded out the mighty council. For a year they had fought against Roman, Gaul and Visigoth, protecting England from invasion and strife during the golden era of Arthur’s court.
“Welcome, Merlin, thrice hail!” said King Arthur, though he spoke the words without his usual good humor. Even so far from home as they were, and regularly beset by battles of their own, it had not escaped the king that Mordred was poised to undo all the long reigning peace and stability that the Knights of Camelot had endeavored to create. Nobility and peace, a just land, all threatened with the torch.
“Greetings, King Arthur. Greetings, good knights,” Merlin said, and the knights turned to give their mentor their attention. “The Sons of The Round Table are defeated,” Merlin said, and there were groans of dismay from the knights. “Though in truth, there was nothing those brave boys could have done. Betrayal most foul has been wrought, and the agents of Arcadia are abroad throughout the land.”
“Then we must ride to Camelot and meet them in battle!” cried Lancelot, standing and drawing his sword.
“Aye! Mordred will pay for the deaths of our kinsmen, though I met them not,” said Tom a’Lincoln.
“My honor on it, this traitor will feel my sword!” bellowed Sir Bors. One by one, the knights stood and drew their swords. The eight mighty Knights of the Round Table gleamed like gods made flesh in the open air. They raised their weapons and swore an oath of vengeance, and it was terrible indeed to witness the wrath of these warriors, each man an army, together invincible.
“Peace, my brothers,” said King Arthur, getting to his feet as well. The beauty of his golden armor was only rivaled by the sternness of his face. Never before or since had there been a king of such kindness, honor and bravery. Though all were equal at the Round Table, all knew that Arthur was made king for a reason, touched by the hand of God Himself and anointed so as well.
“We shall ride to Camelot, and give up these lands to which we have brought peace and justice, though it pains me to do so. Yea, but by the hour of our arrival, I fear that Mordred will already have taken the castle, if he for truth is aided by the forces of Arcadia,” Arthur looked to Merlin, and the wizard gave a shallow nod.
“Arcadia?” said Sir Galahad. “From whence do these men hail? I know the country not.”
“Arcadia is no land, Galahad,” replied Arthur Pendragon. “Arcadia is no place to where we mortals might sail. I have forged our kingdom into a place of peace, of reason and rational wisdom. But my friends, there are other worlds than this one. Worlds where magic reigns and fear and dismay are held up as ideals just as strongly as we hold our own good ones.”
There was murmuring among the knights. Some of them had encountered many fantastical things on their mighty quests, but to hear their king speaking of what no doubt was one of his closest kept secrets – even from them – was disquieting. Arthur continued. “There is good and evil beyond the borders of this world, and to shield our people to whom we must ultimately hold ourselves accountable, I have restricted knowledge of both. Though you may find the signs of these worlds existing in our own, the songs of minstrels or the herb craft of the hedge witches; we have succeeded, Merlin and I, in restricting their influence. One of these worlds is known as Eon, and is the source of all the mythical stories of little people, faefolk and magic. The other is Arcadia; ruled by Oberon, peopled by fell creatures, black-hearted elves and the undead. It is to them whom Mordred has sold his soul. It is the creatures of our nightmares who take up arms against us. I cannot ask you to face these monsters with me, though I will face them alone if I must.” Arthur drew his sword, and Excalibur gleamed. All who looked at this magical weapon felt sure that no man, no elf, no demon or devil could ever topple the bearer.
The knights arrayed before him as one and cried, “For King Arthur and Camelot! Victory or death!” When the clamor had died down, wise Sir Cador spoke.
“We are with you, my king. Unto the fires of hell itself. But the question remains: we are weeks away from Camelot, where Mordred must be mere days. Before we return, Camelot will have fallen to devilry, and will be fortified against us. You made Camelot to be impregnable to assault, and it would be an ill jest if we lose our home to magic and then cannot retake it. I fear we are in for a long campaign of attrition. We take back all of fair England, and then starve Mordred out, yes?”
Merlin stood and answered, and he did not apologize for speaking in the king’s stead. “I believe I have a solution, though not one of you may like it. You have witnessed how I move freely from place to place, but I have never shown you how. To take all of you will take more skill than I possess, and great bravery on your part. If you are willing, we shall walk beyond death, beyond heaven, and through the back doors of the many worlds.”
Lancelot stroked his chin, stark and handsome he was as he said, “Tell us plainly, friend Merlin Graycloak; you speak in riddles. You say to take this path wants more strength than you have, so how do you propose to put it into effect?”
Merlin did not answer, but turned and faced the ruined wall of the stone fort behind where he sat. From where the knights were standing, they saw his staff move in a strange pattern, then the old wizard began to spin it, hand over hand in front of him. Faster and faster the wooden staff moved, until it seemed a blur, too fast for any mortal man to see or enact; but as they had seen time and time again thrice over, Merlin was no mere man. He was a wizard, The Wizard, the greatest of his age and the last that would ever be seen in this world. The wooden staff began to glow, an iridesc
ent purple light began to form about him, which grew in brilliance until no man could stand to look at it, save King Arthur himself, who stared unflinchingly at it. There was a tearing sound, and the ruined rock wall of the fort seemed to fall in on itself, eaten and disappearing into nothing as if an invisible animal was taking great bites. Merlin was chanting, louder and louder in a language none had the knowledge to understand, until there was a final great crack, and the wizard and his staff became still.
The light faded, and the knights could see the wonders Merlin had wrought. In the place of the wall lay a great oval opening of violet, large enough for two horses to ride abreast through it, though to where it led, none could say. There was a speck of light moving toward them from within this portal, though when Sir Bors examined it from the side, there was no tunnel leading away; it was simply as a coin, flipped in the air and held there by air alone. The speck grew larger, and eventually, sharp-eyed Sir Sagramor could hold his tongue no longer. “Sooth! It is a chariot, unless I am deceived!”
“Aye,” said Merlin, and the shape resolved itself in the sight of the rest of the knights. It was a chariot unlike any on earth; for it was not of this earth at all. Drawn by winged horses and fashioned from the ivory gifted by a thousand dying unicorns, Titania rode into the realm of men for the first time in an age. A terrible and beautiful sight she was; wrapped in thin silks and bronzed armor of battle, she bore a great bow with which she had struck down a hundred times a hundred foes. Driving the chariot was a beautiful girl, although she was no girl by the blue of her hair and butterfly wings on her back. Another lass of similar countenance stood with her mistress, bearing a long spear. The chariot stopped without needing to slow down, and rotated within the portal to face the direction from whence it had come.
Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy Page 23