Enlighten

by K. M. Shea

Merlin turned his searing blue eyes on Lancelot again. “You said you and your cousins are acquainted with the Lady of the Lake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Bors and Lionel will accompany Sir Tor and…Sir Percival and his companions there to speak to the Lady,” Merlin said. “And you, Lancelot, you will ride north.”

  “What of the southeast direction?” Sir Griflet asked.

  “Sir Kay and I will cover that direction. After our initial search parties set out, we will send out squads of guards,” Merlin said.

  “I request permission to accompany you, Merlin,” Sir Ywain said.

  “Your request is most emphatically denied,” Merlin said. “I will be using all the powers I have to search for our king—I will not have the patience or ability to keep you from breaking your neck.”

  “I can help!” Sir Ywain argued.

  “You will travel with Sir Lancelot,” Merlin snapped.

  Sir Ywain turned to look at Lancelot so fast, Lancelot could almost hear his neck snap.

  “Truly?” Sir Ywain asked.

  “Truly,” Merlin wryly said, looking to Sir Bedivere. The knight gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Merlin continued, “You, Sir Griflet, and Sir Bedivere shall accompany Sir Lancelot in his northern search.”

  “What of the other knights?” Sir Kay asked.

  “The rest of Arthur’s inner circle is gone—off questing or, in King Pellinore’s case, pursuing that rotten questing beast. If they happen to return while we are absent, Sir Ector will inform them. In the meantime, it will be up to Sir Ector to organize the guard search parties and the remaining knights of the Round Table—though I think it would be likely that if we do not find Arthur in our initial search, we will receive word of him,” Merlin said. “It is to be hoped that we are overreacting. Perhaps it is nothing more than servants of a recreant knight seeking out an opponent, in which case, I am certain Arthur would return shortly. However, until we know for certain where he is, it is best to exercise caution. If you find Arthur, send word immediately,” Merlin instructed. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, Merlin,” the knights chorused.

  “Good. In that case, we must prepare for our departure. Good luck, men,” Merlin said before he stood and opened the door to the study, clearly dismissing them.

  To Lancelot’s surprise, Morgan le Fay was standing out in the hallway, her hands clasped in front of her as she stared at the study door.

  “Arthur has been taken?” Morgan asked Merlin as knights filed past.

  “Yes,” Merlin said.

  Morgan nodded thoughtfully and turned to go—her skirts swishing around her as she walked up the hallway.

  “Sorceresses,” Merlin muttered, casting another intense look at Lancelot before shutting the study door.

  Lancelot watched Morgan disappear down the hallway. Merlin punishing me with Sir Ywain and Sir Griflet and sending me in the least likely direction is no shock—I have placed his precious king in danger, after all. But Morgan-the-man-hater’s affection for Arthur is true? That seems suspicious, even if he is her half-brother…

  “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Britt said, folding her legs pretzel style when she sat on the filth-covered dungeon floor. “Sir Damas has taken me captive—just as he took all of you captive—in hopes that he can convince me to fight on his behalf and face his brother, Sir Outzlake, in combat.”

  “Yes,” said the knight in the cell across from Britt.

  “Sir Damas needs a champion because he is a rotten fighter—”

  “He’s more of a scholar, really,” a dirty knight in a neighboring cell said.

  “—and his brother, the previously mentioned Sir Outzlake, keeps challenging him because Sir Damas won’t share his inheritance with him?” Brit said.

  “Well, he’s shared some. Sir Outzlake has a very fine, rich manor not far from here,” one of the roughly ten captive knights begrudgingly admitted.

  “Sir Damas must be going against his father’s wishes then and is hogging the rest of the inheritance?” Britt asked, tapping her fingers on her knees.

  “No,” the knight across from Britt said. “Their father willed the majority of his wealth to Sir Damas.”

  Britt scrunched her eyes shut. “Then I don’t get it. You all told me Sir Damas is rotten and evil, and that is why none of you have been willing to act as his champion.”

  “He is,” a fellow captive said.

  “But it sounds to me like Sir Outzlake is the one in the wrong. Sir Damas can’t help what his father willed to him—although he’s obviously no bleeding lamb either, or he wouldn’t be kidnapping knights to fight for him,” Britt said, rubbing the sore spot on her head.

  “No, no. Sir Outzlake is very kind,” a captive knight said.

  “Then why is he challenging his brother?” Britt asked.

  “Because it isn’t fair that Sir Damas received so much, and Sir Outzlake received so little.”

  “The knight has a blooming manor. He can’t have received that little!” Britt said, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Yes, but he needs to provide for his sister,” another knight said.

  “Wait, Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake have a sister?” Britt asked.

  “Yes, Lady Vivenne.”

  “And she’s staying with Sir Outzlake?”

  “No, she’s with Sir Damas right now.”

  Britt loudly sighed. “That’s it. I think they both could be considered recreant knights.”

  “Sir Damas is extremely selfish. He cares only for himself and his pursuit of knowledge,” a captive knight protested.

  “Yes, but at least he doesn’t go around trying to attack his neighbors because he wants their things,” Britt said.

  “But he is cruel to Lady Vivenne,” Britt’s captive neighbor said. “She has been ignored since the day her father died two years ago. Although Sir Damas sees that she is fed and clothed, he keeps her locked up in his castle.”

  “Probably because otherwise Sir Outzlake would try and kidnap her,” Britt said.

  “Sir Outzlake would never!”

  Britt rolled her eyes at the sea of protests. “Right, yeah. How long has this been going on?”

  “Caradan, you were the first captive. When did it start?” a knight down the line shouted.

  “Not a day over eight months,” chirped a voice at the far end of the dungeon.

  “And there you have it. Eight months,” Britt’s neighbor said.

  “And none of you decided it was better to fight for Sir Damas because then—Oh, I don’t know—maybe you could get out?” Britt asked.

  The knight across from Britt piously shook his head. “It would never do to fight for Sir Damas’ cause. It is unseemly to get involved in family matters.”

  “Besides, it’s not that terrible here,” another knight said. “Maybe a little chilly in the winter, and the food is questionable, but it’s not a horror to sit around and sleep and do as I wish.”

  Britt stared at the knight before asking, “How many of you belong to King Leodegrance’s court?”

  Britt didn’t get a reply—the great door to the dungeon swung open first. A huge, hulking man dressed in black filled the doorway. He was so muscular, he almost had to waddle down the tiny dungeon aisle. He stopped in front of Britt’s cell and did a reasonable impersonation of Darth Vader as he breathed loudly in his black helm. Abruptly, he stepped aside, allowing a spindly man—who couldn’t have been much over five feet and was as muscular as a scrawny boy—to peer at Britt.

  “This is the new captive?” the stick-like man asked, glancing up at Muscular Darth Vader.

  Muscular Darth Vader nodded.

  Stick Man squinted. “He looks too pretty. Are you sure you did not snatch a faerie warrior? My brother may smash him like a butterfly.”

  Britt was simultaneously pleased and offended. Although she was forced to act like a man, her feminine pride always took a hit that the ploy seemed so easy to carry off. As such,
she was always highly gratified whenever anyone thought her to be too beautiful to be a man. Still, the complete lack of faith in her physical abilities was a little much.

  “I took out your men easily enough—they had to team up to capture me,” Britt said, making a show of stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles—as if she was in a position to be confident, and not them.

  “Good point. Very well, knight. What is your name?” Stick Man—who obviously had to be Sir Damas—asked.

  “It’s…Ywain. Sir Ywain,” Britt said, providing the false name on a flash of inspiration.

  “Sir Ywain, I find myself in need of a champion to defend my name against my black-hearted brother,” Sir Damas said. “He continuously attacks me for no reason and harasses me worse than a recreant knight. My company is so pitiful that I have no men who can properly defend me against him.”

  Britt ignored the outraged shouts of her fellow captives and looked past Sir Damas to stare at Muscular Darth Vader. “I see,” she said.

  Sir Damas ignored her pointed look and continued—his voice was surprisingly deep and throaty despite his stick-ish body. “I have invited you into my castle with such hospitality in hopes that you would fight on my behalf.”

  “If I fight for you, will you release me—whether I win or lose?”

  “I will release you only if you win. Naturally,” Sir Damas said with a curdled smile.

  Britt considered Sir Damas and tapped her kneecap. Although she didn’t fancy the idea of helping him, she wasn’t going to sit in the dungeons and rot either. I can always come back and smite Sir Damas and Sir Outzlake once I’m freed.

  “Sure,” Britt said, liquidly rising to her feet.

  “Sir Ywain, you are about to commit a grave sin!”

  “If you aid Sir Damas, you are a recreant knight!”

  “Why would you agree to help him?”

  “Silence!” Sir Damas shouted over the protesting knights. He was ignored. Sir Damas glared and took a key off his belt. He opened the door of Britt’s cell with a great clank.

  Britt followed the short man out of the dungeons and into an open air courtyard. Britt stretched her arms above her head and soaked up the fading sunlight.

  “The contest will be tomorrow,” Sir Damas said in his deep, throaty voice. “I suppose you need armor?” he grudgingly asked.

  “Yes. Your men didn’t happen to bring my sword with me, did they?” Britt asked.

  “No. Markem will see you outfitted,” Sir Damas said, nodding to Muscular Darth Vader. “See that he is given appropriate weapons and a room—have him guarded to make sure he doesn’t run.”

  “Sir Damas, a moment, please,” Britt said.

  “What is it?” Sir Damas asked, impatience flashing across his face.

  “Sir Outzlake is the challenger, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that gives you the right to decide the contest. Request a battle by swords,” Britt said.

  Sir Damas frowned. “Such quarrels are traditionally decided by jousting.”

  “So I’ve heard, but I’m better at the sword. Ask for a contest of swords.”

  Sir Damas shrugged. “It makes no difference—so long as you win.”

  “Right, thank you,” Britt said, adjusting her leather jerkin.

  Sir Damas waved a hand in the air to acknowledge her and walked away.

  Britt looked over at Muscular Darth Vader. “To the armory?” she asked.

  Muscular Darth Vader nodded and led the way.

  Britt took one of the three, two-handed swords Muscular Darth Vader had selected for her. She whirled it through the air and tried striking a dummy before stepping back. “Not quite balanced,” she muttered, swapping the sword for a different one. Excalibur’s empty scabbard was still strapped to her—there was no way she was taking the scabbard off, as it was imbedded with magic that would keep her from bleeding out if she was ever wounded.

  Britt ran a finger down the scabbard, missing Excalibur like she would miss an old friend. She sighed and picked up the next sword, twirling it before testing it against the dummy.

  “Better,” she said.

  “So you’re the champion my brother finally found. Funny—I never thought you would be so comely.”

  Britt spun, her muscles tense as she found herself face to face with a teenage girl. She probably wasn’t older than fourteen or fifteen, although she was dressed in a plain, undyed kirtle.

  “Lady Vivenne?” Britt guessed.

  Vivenne nodded and plopped down on a stone bench. “I thought only a recreant knight would be willing to help my brother. You don’t look very recreant, though,” she said, studying Britt.

  Britt smiled. “Looks can be deceiving. You want your other brother, Sir Outzlake, to win, I suppose?”

  “I don’t care who wins. It’s all the same to me,” Lady Vivenne dully said.

  “But the way everyone speaks, Sir Outzlake is a wronged saint,” Britt said, trading swords again to test out her last option.

  “Oh, he’s nicer. But he’s just as selfish as Damas. He doesn’t give a berry for me—I’m just another thing Damas got put in charge of. Father always said Outzlake was less responsible—he’s a bit of a warmonger. At least Damas will never get himself killed since he’s hiding away in his study all the time.”

  “I see,” Britt said, at a loss for the young lady’s bluntness. She glanced up at the night sky and the four sputtering torches that had been lit for her benefit in the courtyard. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be up?”

  “Maybe. But I had to stay up. One of the servants was having her baby, and Damas won’t hire an herb woman, so I’m the best the castle has,” Lady Vivenne said.

  “I see,” Britt carefully said.

  Lady Vivenne tilted her head. “Are you wondering why I’m telling you all of this?”

  “You may say whatever you like, Lady Vivenne,” Britt said, turning her back to the young lady to study the three swords.

  “That’s no fun. I thought I would whet your curiosity. I’ll give you a hint—it’s not because you are handsome.”

  “That is reassuring,” Britt said, choosing the middle sword.

  “It’s because I’ve heard about you, Sir Ywain.”

  Britt almost dropped her sword. “What?”

  “You’re from King Arthur’s court, and you went questing last summer and fall in the Forest of Arroy with your close companion, Sir Griflet. I heard about a few of your battles.”

  Britt stared at the girl in horror. She thought Ywain was a safe bet compared to Gawain, or Kay, or Pellinore. He wasn’t as widely known. How had this girl heard of him?

  “I want you to know that neither of my brothers are good knights—not really. They would never hurt their people, but they don’t care for others like they should,” Lady Vivenne said. “And if you beat Outzlake tomorrow, I know you’re going to return to Camelot. If you speak to King Arthur, and if he decides to ride out to see both of my brothers removed from their knighthoods—as I would imagine would happen since Damas has kidnapped you—please ask him to be thoughtful when he decides what knight to give our lands to. Not for my brothers’ sake—though I do love those silly men—but for the sake of their people. They deserve to serve a just knight—not one of King Leodegrance’s men.”

  Britt had managed to regain her wits during Lady Vivenne’s talk. “You have a compelling case. I will be sure to tell Arthur.”

  Lady Vivenne smiled brightly. “Thank you,” she said before dropping a cloth bundle that contained food on the bench. “This is for you. If you’ll excuse me, I really should retire.”

  Britt bowed. “As you wish, Lady Vivenne.”

  Lady Vivenne scampered out of the torchlight, leaving Britt alone with her insomnia and the night sky.

  Britt rubbed her eyes. “This isn’t what I bargained for. Why can’t it be more clear-cut?” she muttered before she looked up at the stars. “One thing is for certain—Merlin a
nd Kay must be fuming.”

  Chapter 4

  A Fight between Champions

  Britt sneezed, spattering the inside of her helm with spit. “Gross,” she said, making a face. The spring air was cool, but Britt was warm enough, bundled up in black armor as she was. The chest piece was a little uncomfortable since it lacked the extra padding Britt’s armor was usually stuffed with to help camouflage her chest. As a result, the armor piece flatted her like an ironing board.

  The morning sun beat down on Britt and her companions—Sir Damas, a number of his guards, and Lady Vivenne. Birds chirped and sang, and high in the sky a hawk wheeled overhead.

  Britt tried to discreetly check her buckles—she had donned the bulk of the armor alone to preserve the illusion of her gender, and she wasn’t certain she did everything right.

  “Prepare yourself, Sir Ywain. Yonder comes my recreant brother, Sir Outzlake,” Sir Damas said, indicating to the far end of the meadow, where a party of knights emerged from the forest.

  “He looks…unwell,” Britt said.

  The man Sir Damas pointed to was, oddly enough, not wearing armor. He wore a plain tunic, and his arm was tied in a sling, even though he rode a spirited horse. He was a great hulk of a man—Sir Damas’ opposite in every physical aspect.

  “I thought I was going to fight him,” Britt said, taking in his lack of armor.

  “That was the plan,” Sir Damas muttered. “What is the meaning of this, brother?” he shouted when the other party drew near enough to hear him over the jingling of horse tack. “Did you not agree to fight whatever champion I might find?”

  “I did,” Sir Outzlake said.

  As soon as he spoke, Britt had to turn away to keep from laughing. While small, stick-like Damas had a voice of thunder, Outzlake the hulk sounded like a pre-pubescent boy.

  “Unfortunately,” Sir Outzlake continued in his almost soprano voice, “I have recently injured myself.”

  “This is suspicious timing. Perhaps you fear my champion?” Sir Damas asked.

  Sir Outzlake puffed up like an angry cat. “Never!” he hissed. He cleared his throat and—with great difficulty—made himself relax. “I am pleased to say, however, that I too have found a champion to serve in my place.”