Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  “Should we go find help?”

  “Mm, let's wait a bit, shall we?”

  Something grabbed them out of the darkness. They screamed and thrashed about like scared children being dragged from underneath a bed.

  “Quiet you bloody fools!” McFowler hissed. He was wearing nothing but his kilt and his huge claymore. He was covered in blood and black ichor.

  “Where are the rest?” he asked. They told him of the cellar. “Splendid! You are a credit to the Order, both of you. Let's go have some fun then!” He grabbed the two junior knights by their surcoats and dragged them in the direction of the fighting.

  “But Jason, there is a really big one roaming about here!” Gregory protested.

  “Yes lad, I've seen the beast.”

  “But it breathes fire...” Gregory continued.

  “And it's really ugly,” Patrick added.

  Jason looked somewhat disappointed. “Look lads, you won't make your fame and fortune being timid. You must take the fight to the enemy. Now let's go!”

  #

  When McFowler, Patrick, and Gregory found the Avangarde, they were gathered in front of the church. Many Avangarde were throwing their shoulders against the church doors and King Mark shouted commands. The courtyard was a mess, but the fighting was done.

  “What is going on?” Patrick said.

  “It would appear that the goblins and their Goblin King have barricaded themselves inside the church. We've won the battle,” Gregory said.

  Jason grimaced. “We've won nothing yet. If they are indeed trapped inside there, then they are like cornered animals; all the more dangerous. They won't give up with out a fight.”

  A handful of knights carried in a large piece of timber and commenced to use it as a battering ram.

  “Shouldn't we help?” Patrick asked. The other knights stood back and waited, weapons drawn.

  “I have a better idea,” McFowler said. “Do you boys want to be heroes?” McFowler asked. Patrick and Gregory nodded excitedly. “Good, then follow me.”

  #

  “You are Loki. The same Loki in the picture,” Benis said.

  “Nonsense, how is that possible?” the Viscount responded lightly. He continued to approach the priest, who walked backwards, crucifix held out.

  “You are Nephilim.”

  Loki froze and his devilish smile quickly turned to a sneer. “Don’t call me that,” he warned, stabbing a black-gloved finger at the priest. If he had any doubts before, Benis felt that Loki’s reaction was as good as an admission.

  “Would you prefer Jotun? Giant? Perhaps, demon? You certainly are not a god.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Even the Aesir did not count you as an equal.” Benis pointed to the open book, the picture. “They banished you to a cave for your evil deeds among them. How did you escape, I wonder?”

  Loki froze again in his slow pursuit of the priest across the library, a pained look crossing his face. He touched the scars on his face. “It wasn’t easy, and it came at a great cost.”

  “The woman in the picture?” Father Benis conjectured, stalling for time, looking nervously at the library doors that he had barred. No one would rescue him.

  “Yes. Sigun, my wife. Not too bright, but very devoted. She made good my escape, but lost her life in the process, and I’m never, never going back…but these things don’t concern you.” A calmness settled over Loki. “You know what I am here for, so I suggest you cooperate.”

  “It’s the secret documents you’ve been inquiring about, isn’t it?” Benis was now backed up against a shelf. “They were right to hide them. Nothing good would ever come of them. I can’t imagine what you intend to use them for, but surely not for any good. No, Lord Loki, I won’t be helping you.”

  Calmly, almost gently, Loki said, “The key to the vault of forbidden books—give it to me, or I'll pry it from your dead fingers.” Loki held out his gloved hand, claw-like under Father Benis' nose.

  “You'll have to do just that. Though I don't understand how you think it won't go unnoticed; me with a sword gash through me and the key missing.”

  “That, dear fellow, is exactly why I orchestrated this elaborate attack on the keep,” Loki boasted. “Your death would be no great mystery in the event of an attack. Unfortunately, judging by how things are going outside for my accomplices, I don’t think they are going to make it inside the keep to hack you to pieces as I had planned. So, I will have to improvise.” The Viscount reached out and snatched the prayer beads away, crucifix and all. He fingered the beads. “No, I think in all the excitement, your old frail heart was under incredible strain and just—” he popped one of the beads off the string. A flash of light flared from it like the seal breaking on a Greensprings invitation—”plain faltered.”

  Father Benis doubled over, clutching his heart.

  #

  Jason hoisted Gregory up past the remainder of the drain pipe and onto the church roof. Now all three were crouching on the tiles. The battering ram echoed below.

  “Now what?” Patrick asked. McFowler motioned for silence and gestured for them to follow.

  Jason climbed to the stained glass dome and peered through it. From a distance, the colored plates formed scenes from the life of Christ. Now, in front of them and up close, what should have been an image of Jesus carrying the cross merely looked like rudimentary colors and shapes. Inside a couple dozen goblins were throwing the pews against the double doors for added protection. The Goblin King stood in the sanctuary, giving orders.

  “With the doors blocked like that, they can almost stay in there indefinitely,” McFowler murmured.

  “We could burn them out,” Gregory suggested.

  The Highlander shook his head. “Not with the church attached to the keep. We run the risk of catching it all on fire. We need to open those doors.”

  “What manner of creature is that big one?” Patrick whispered.

  Jason shrugged. “Ogre, troll, hobgoblin, take your pick. It is a remnant from a bygone age. A fairy tale. It should disappear like one. Leave that one to me.”

  Patrick and Gregory turned pale. “What are you suggesting?”

  McFowler grinned. “We're going to surprise attack them.”

  “What!”

  Jason stood up, planted his boot into Gregory's buttocks, and shoved the little knight through the stained glass. The heavy glass caved, rather than shattered, along the lead linings. Gregory fell through, into the throng of milling goblins.

  The Irishman stood up in shock. “Are you ma...!” McFowler planted his hand in the middle of Patrick's chest and sent him after Gregory. His stomach turned over, and an instant later he found himself in the pile of goblins.

  Sir McFowler whooped and jumped through the hole himself. He knocked over the goblins struggling to stand as well as the Reservists. He was the first to recover and began to wind-mill his claymore about, wreaking his brand of terror over the ugly creatures like a farmer in a wheat field. Patrick and Gregory stood and thrashed wildly at anything that was near them, sometimes each other.

  Though the creatures were fearsome, they were surprisingly lightweight and easily dispatched, as Sir Jon had noticed earlier. The only problem was their number. However, in minutes, the two Reservists were organized and standing back to back to meet the onslaught.

  The ogre thundered forward, leveling its lance like a javelin to hurl at the knights. Jason barreled forward, goblins hanging off him like children. He made contact with the creature and knocked it to the ground.

  “Get to the door lads! Keep them from blocking it any more!” he shouted.

  As Patrick and Gregory cut a swathe to the doors, McFowler distracted the ogre. The thing stabbed and swung its lance expertly, and Jason was hard pressed to battle it for the lance reached farther than his sword. Their contest was so fierce, the lesser goblins stayed clear and concentrated on the two knights at the doors.

  Jason backed away from the creature and parried a thrust.
“I say old fellow,” he chided. “Is that you that I smell, or did you step in something?”

  The ogre snorted like a bull and made a wild swing.

  “No, that is definitely you,” Jason continued. “Why, I'd almost say that is a womanly odor.”

  The monster drew back its head and breathed fire at Jason. But Jason crouched and sprung into a back flip to avoid the flames. Flagstones were blackened and some of the nearby pews caught on fire. Father Constant wasn't going to be too pleased.

  Jason landed on his feet. “That most definitely is a woman's odor. Which makes perfect sense. You fight like one!”

  The thing bellowed and raised its fists. Jason double gripped his claymore and brought the blade down on the ogre's chest. Its armor was cleaved in two in a shower of sparks, and the beast fell to the ground.

  “I should know,” Jason said with a smirk. “You remind me of a lass I used to court.”

  McFowler's eyes widened. The ogre was rising.

  “Ah, hell.”

  #

  Father Benis crawled towards the library doors. Loki ambled along behind him and scrutinized the crucifix, noting the intricate shapes cut into it. It was a key.

  “How clever,” he said. He popped yet another bead off the chain. There was another flash of light and Benis cried out in pain. “I hate cleverness in anyone other than me.”

  The priest’s breath came in great wheezes. He prayed, “Though...I...walk through the valley of the shadow of death...”

  “That's it, little man, pray to your God,” Loki said. There was another flash. Benis grabbed his chest tighter. Another bead fell to the flagstones and bounced away. “He can't hear you. He's not here. He can't help you. He can't help you any more than he can stop me.” Another flash, another cry. Another bead fell.

  Loki placed his boot on Father Benis' back and pushed down hard. The priest’s form flattened and Loki kicked him over. His eyes were now glassy, and his mouth formed silent words. Loki looked upon him contemptuously and flash after flash lit the room.

  Finally, the Viscount's mouth twisted into a violent leer. He stripped the remainder of the beads from the string and held only the metal cross. He gripped it so tightly his leather gloves creaked.

  Father Benis' blank stare faced heavenward.

  #

  The church doors burst open and burly Avangarde pushed through the portal, hurling pews aside. Knights garbed in black surcoats leapt through the gap while Gregory and Patrick held the majority of goblins at bay. King Mark was the first to their aid, and he made short work of the annoying little creatures. More and more Avangarde piled into the sanctuary.

  McFowler had no rest. The ogre had forced him to the altar, where they fought underneath the stained glass dome and the stone cross that bore the image of Jesus. McFowler tired, and the monster pressed closer.

  “Hang on Jason, we're coming!” Mark called.

  Jason grinned and renewed his efforts. “Oh, take your time. I have things under control.” Patrick and Gregory were with Mark and the rest of the knights, and the goblins had all been eliminated. “As a matter of fact, just stay there and I'll...”

  Jason's voice was cut off into a sickening squelching sound. His smile froze into a look of shock, and then faded to confusion. Mark and the Avangarde stopped in their tracks. Jason looked down; the ogre's lance pierced all the way through his torso. “Well, would you look at that,” he struggled to say. Thick blood welled up in his mouth and spilled in clotty strands down his beard.

  He grasped the shaft of the lance firmly. The ogre tried to force it in further, but could not overcome Jason's strength. Jason raised his sword with his free hand and shattered the lance. He staggered forward with sword raised to continue his attack. The ogre fell back a step and looked afraid.

  But McFowler fell to his knees. He slumped to one side, his sword fell with a loud clang to the floor, and his body was still.

  The Avangarde did not move. The ogre made no immediate moves either. The moment seemed to last an eternity.

  The creature stepped forward and pushed Jason's body down the dais.

  “You see,” it said scornfully, “you cannot defeat me. No weapon forged by man can bring me harm. No man who is subject to death can touch me. You may as well let me pass. I have toyed with you long enough, you bore me.”

  The ogre's eyes were blazed crimson, and its gaze passed over all the assembled knights. “I see no such hero. No person who can lay harm to this son of old. You are all weak. Let me pass or I will destroy you also.”

  The ogre moved to exit the church, but King Mark stepped in his path. The ogre stopped and chuckled evilly. This chuckle turned into a full blown malicious laugh.

  Mark's face was pale and his eyes were wet with tears. His eyes were the color of darkest midnight and his finely chiseled face was contorted. His sword shook in his fist.

  The ogre continued to point and laugh spitefully.

  “No man subject to death...” Mark whispered, realization brightening his face. He turned and swung his sword at the stone pillar behind him. He struck the thick rope that was anchored there, and it broke like a string. The rope was sucked skyward and the church was filled with a hissing noise.

  The ogre stopped laughing.

  The stone cross supported in the dome came crashing down, dragging with it all the heavy rope that had suspended it. The last thing the ogre saw before being crushed was the mournful face of Jesus Christ.

  Dust exploded into the air and with a flash of brilliant light, the stone effigy cracked in half.

  When the dust had settled, the creature was pinned underneath the cross, its eyes bugged out and glazed over. Then it began to cave in on itself, melting until the entire ogre was but a smoldering grease spot underneath the rubble. It was later found that that was the fate of all the goblins in the keep. They decayed into grease stains on the ground, and even these disappeared when sunlight shone on them.

  The knights gathered around the motionless figure of Jason McFowler.

  #

  The secret compartment was not as large, nor were there as many documents, as Loki had thought. Searching through the shelves, he was at first disappointed and thought perhaps all his work was for nothing. But among the leather-bound books and ancient vellum scrolls, he found a map of the island bearing numbers, astrological symbols, and arcane sigils. This surpassed his wildest expectations, and though a quick perusal of the remaining material showed other fascinating items, they did not concern his mission, so he let them be.

  No sooner than he had closed the cabinet and locked it, than the horns went silent in Greensprings. All was quiet now. The attack was over.

  He made for the library doors, but paused to drop the crucifix-key on the priest’s chest. In doing so, he noted a shiny object in the folds of the man’s robe, which he bent down to retrieve. He grunted and raised an eyebrow when he saw that it was a glass disk. This he held over the symbols on the map and noted how it magnified them.

  “Interesting,” he mused out loud, and placed it and the folded map in his vestment.

  He took the crossbar off the double doors, set it on the floor, stepped over it, and exited, closing the doors behind him.

  Shortly afterwards, the beam of wood shook, then rocked, and then levitated off the floor. As though guided by invisible hands, it slowly settled in the door mounts.

  #

  Though it rained the day of the funeral, the sun was out. Back home in Eire, Patrick mused, conditions like this were referred to as “The Devil’s Rain”. The two complimented each other, however, for there was an abundance of rainbows in the sky that day.

  The church in the village of Aesclinn was used instead of the keep church, since it had been damaged in the attack. The seats filled up quickly, then the balcony, sides, and back, and soon the crowd spilled out the doors. Knights, farmers, keep servants, Guests, clergy, fishermen, and all the villagers. McFowler’s death made them equals for a day. Father Hugh Constant couldn't r
emember the little church so full.

  Father Benis, who had died of a heart attack behind the library’s closed doors, had been laid to rest the previous day. His funeral was attended only by close friends and veteran members of Greensprings. That was the way he would have wanted it.

  When all were assembled, the double doors swung open and knights entered clad in the black and white surcoats of the Avangarde, bearing the shrouded body of Jason. The pallbearers were, of course, Sir Mark, Sir Waylan, Sir Corbin, and Sir Bisch. Sir Brian marched in front, playing the bagpipes.

  Jason’s companions bore his body slowly down the aisle for all his friends to see. They brought it to rest before the altar, and then took places near Brian.

  When Brian had finished, first Father Hugh and then King Mark gave their eulogies, which brought more laughter than tears as they spoke of the life of Sir Jason McFowler.

  When they were done, the Lady Katherina stepped up to the sanctuary and said she would perform one of Jason’s favorite ballads.

  She cupped her dove colored hands before her, dipped her head for a moment in the silence, and then opened her mouth to form a perfect “O”. Her lips did not move, nor did her chest, as the first note issued forth. Her voice projected as if by magic. McCabe joined in with the pipes. The sounds filled the church like a kind of light. People bowed their heads in private prayer.

  Except for the Viscount Loki—he sat among the colorful noblemen like a great black bird. He looked to Minion and rolled his eyes. Minion snickered quietly.

  #

  Patrick Gawain entered his room, took off his sword and tossed it on the bed. He then sank into his usual seat before the window and propped his feet against the sill.

  His emotions were running in all directions, and for all the wrong reasons.

  A friend had just died, and the only thing that seemed to occupy his mind was how he was passed up for promotion to be an Avangarde. He felt deeply ashamed at his selfishness. He had wished for an opening in the Avangarde to present itself. Was his wishful thinking somehow the cause for Jason's death? As silly and unlikely as that thought may have been, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of guilt while Katherina, the songstress and Jason’s companion, watched him throughout the funeral. Her beautiful icy eyes bored into him as if to condemn him: You were his friend—why is it you live, yet he does not?