“W…what happened?” asked Arti, trying to get her bearings. Having no recollection of the sudden and strange visions she’d just experienced, Arti was surprised to see Merl peering over Gwen’s shoulder; he had been sitting across from her just a moment before. Gwen was still to Arti’s left, but wearing an expression of shocked wonder.
“You did it,” said Gwen. “You wrote something.” She pointed at the edge of the round table near the center of the U-shaped booth.
There, in perfect swirling black script, were two words: Siegea Perilisi.
CHAPTER 16
As Lance said goodbye to his aunt Vivian, Gal waited in the Charger, sitting back in the soft leather seat, admiring the sleek dashboard with its shiny glass dials. The left side of her face was still very swollen, so she had to turn her head sideways and look through her good eye to take everything in. Her head was still wrapped in bandages, and the fingers of her right hand remained splinted. Vivian said she could take the splints off in a couple weeks, but her fingers would take months to mend. The headaches and dizzy spells, she said, might last even longer. For the second time in a week, the girl and the old woman said their goodbyes, this time Gal returning the hug she was offered.
“Look after Gal and the others, Lance,” said Vivian. “And yourself.” She kissed her nephew’s cheek. “Be true to your name and your oath. You are the last of your line trained in the Art, but eighty generations of the de Lac family are with you. A Knight of Maren is never alone.”
Lance threw his leather jacket over his shoulder and grabbed his duffel bag. He smiled at her and nodded, finding strength in the words.
The trip from Lakeside Antiquities to the Camel Lot was not a good one for Gal. They were only halfway down Center Street when she leaned forward in her seat, eyes closed to combat a fiery stab of pain in her head.
“I will stop,” said Lance. “This is too much for you.”
“No,” objected Gal, still hunched over. “Keep goin’.”
Fighting her nausea, she managed to give Lance directions to the old car dealership, but the short journey seemed to last an eternity. She was relieved when they finally arrived, desperate for the car’s motion to end.
“Go to the back,” said Gal, squinting through her good eye. “There’s a g’rage.”
The Charger rumbled past the main building and, for a moment, Gal forgot how much pain she was in. She could see the motorhome’s grill peeking out of the bay; Arti and Merl had made it back. But then she noticed a car parked in the last bay and wondered who it could belong to.
Inside the motorhome, the three occupants were discussing the meaning of the words Arti had written on the round table.
“As you’d expect, it’s Old Ferencian,” said Merl. “Translated, it means Perilous…” he hesitated, “…ah… Siege.”
“But what does that mean?” asked Arti. “Why would I…I mean the pen write it?”
“It’s difficult to say,” said Merl, rubbing his chin.
Arti hadn’t known Merl for long, but she could already read him like a book. He was hiding something; she was sure of it.
“Maybe it has to do with the quest,” offered Gwen. “Siege could refer to getting the book from the castle, and we know it’s going to be dangerous. That could be the perilous part.”
“Hmmm…yes,” agreed Merl, happy to accept Gwen’s explanation. “It will be a perilous siege. That must be it. The pen is warning us of what’s ahead.” He turned to Arti, “That makes sense, don’t you think?”
“Could be,” replied Arti, masking her suspicion.
The sound of a car approaching interrupted the discussion, and the three scrambled from their places around the table.
“Are you expecting someone?” whispered Gwen, gathering up the pieces of the model castle from the floor of the motorhome.
“No,” answered Merl, “but we weren’t expecting you either.” For a moment, he wondered if their luck had finally run out.
“It’s the car from the antique shop,” gasped Arti, bending to look out through the motorhome’s windshield. She waited for Merl to drop down beside her. “Isn’t it?”
“There can’t be more than one such vehicle on the island,” said Merl, straining to see.
When the door opened and Lance stepped out, Arti couldn’t believe her eyes. The slicked back hair, the handsome face, the leather jacket.
“It’s The Poet!”
“The one you saw fight at the…what’s it called?” Merl searched for the word.
“Cauldron,” said Arti. “Yes, that’s him. I’m sure.”
Gwen joined Arti and Merl on the floor to get a look. “He’s way too good looking to be a fighter,” she said.
“He’s opening the other door,” said Merl. “What’s he up to?”
When Lance lifted his passenger from the car, Arti shouted at the top of her lungs, “Gal!” The cry could easily be heard outside the motorhome.
“What was that?” asked Lance, carrying Gal gingerly toward the garage.
“Sounded like Arti,” winced Gal. “Guess she’s happy to see me.”
It was the greatest of understatements. Arti was beside herself, overwhelmed by a mix of joy and relief that made her forget about everything else: the pen, the quest, the impossible mission still ahead of them. Gal was alive, and they were together again. It was a miracle made even more remarkable by the devotion shown her by the handsome young man cradling her in his arms.
Arti flew down the steps of the motorhome and threw open the door, with Merl and Gwen in tow.
“Are you okay?” she asked, alarmed by Gal’s appearance: the bandaged head with its spot of blood, the bruised and swollen face, the splinted fingers.
“She will recover,” said Lance. “She needs time to rest and heal.”
Arti nodded, leading them toward the motorhome. “We’ll make a bed for her.” Her eyes pleaded with Merl.
“Yes, yes. I’ll get a blanket and pillow.” He directed Lance, “Take her to the back. She’ll be comfortable there.”
After delivering Gal carefully to the wide rear bench of the motorhome where he and Arti made sure she was comfortable, the young man introduced himself.
“My name is Lance,” he said on bended knee, “and I swear fealty, my liege.”
Arti stiffened, not knowing what she should say. Beside her, Gwen giggled.
“You are a Knight of Maren?” asked Merl, rescuing Arti.
“Yes,” said Lance. “I was summoned by my Aunt Vivian. She believed The History would soon be written, and the Challenger to Morgan Fay would be found here in Tintagel. When Arti came for the pen, my aunt was filled with hope. But something still troubled her, so instead of having me accompany you, she thought it best that I watch from afar.” Lance glanced back at Gal, solemnly. “It was a decision she deeply regrets. As do I.” He looked at Arti and offered his pledge: “I will not fail you again.”
“Thanks,” was all Arti could think to say.
Lance nodded, then turned to Gwen, his mood more upbeat. “Are you also Arti’s friend?”
Gwen glanced uncomfortably at Arti, knowing she didn’t dare make such a claim. “Um…I…”
“Gwen is also a knight, Lance,” said Merl, “but untrained in The Verses. She was guided here by a Finding Sword.”
Lance couldn’t hide his amazement. As a young page, he had been raised on tales of the ancient knights and their magic, the Finding Swords being an important part of that lore. It was said that the tiny objects were the knights’ most cherished possessions because they could help them locate their liege lord no matter how far away he might be. One need only speak the oath they shared, and the sword would point the way. Lance recalled his family’s motto, the words his Aunt Vivian said to him when he and Gal departed Lakeside Antiquities: A Knight of Maren is never alone.
“Gwen knows the castle and will guide us on our quest,” added Merl.
“Very well,” said Lance. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Gwen. “If you wou
ld like, I would be happy teach you some of the farapenne de moets.”
“Lance is trained in the ‘strike of words,’ Gwen,” explained Merl. “It’s a very special kind of martial art.”
Gwen’s face lit up. “Yes, I’ve read about it. I’d love to learn from you.”
“It will be my honor.” Lance bowed, amusing Gwen with the gallant gesture.
“Keep in mind, there’s much work to be done,” said Merl. “We must complete our mission on Corporation Night, and there’s precious little time to prepare. I’ll fill you in on the details, Lance.”
In a flatbed truck parked at the corner of Waverly and Canal Streets, two passengers sat in the cab while a cargo of men with clubs and knives crouched behind them.
“Butch said he’d meet us here,” mumbled the man behind the wheel. “Said he might know where The Poet’s at.”
The driver was over six feet tall, but sitting next to Little Donnie in the pick-up’s box-like cab, he looked tiny. The long red scar crossing Donnie’s cloudy eye made him even more intimidating.
“Well, if he ain’t here soon, we’re headin’ down to Vinnie’s on Market to see if he’s seen anythin’. Big Billy’s expectin’ results; I ain’t goin’ back to him empty handed.”
Little Donnie’s patience was wearing thin when a trio of ragged looking men came shuffling down the street toward them. A hand signal from the one in front and the driver’s relief confirmed the man’s identity.
“That’s Butch. I told you he’d make it.”
Addressing Little Donnie at the open passenger window, Butch was wary of the big man whose reputation preceded him.
“You lookin’ for that Ferencian fighter?”
“Yeah, The Poet. Seen him?”
“Been a fancy white import—one of them Chargers—parked down a dead end next a little shop by the lakeshore. Only been there a couple weeks.”
“How do you know it’s his?”
The man laughed. “Aren’t many of them cars around. And the old lady that owns the shop’s from Ference. What are the odds?”
Little Donnie chewed his lip. “Okay, we’ll look into it. If you’re right, there’ll be a little somethin’ for you at the Cauldron. Drop in and see me.” The big man tapped the hood to go, but the order was ignored.
“Who’s that?” said the driver, looking up the street. A long black Destrier sedan was cruising toward them.
“If that’s Flames, they got a death wish,” said Little Donnie.
Butch jumped back from the door as the big man leapt out of the truck. He snapped his chunky fingers at the men crouched on the flatbed and pointed at the approaching car. The throng of fighters jumped down to the pavement, clubs and knives at the ready.
“Don’t do nothin’ ‘til I say,” ordered Little Donnie. If they were Incendi, he expected they’d be armed with lighters, and things were going to get messy.
The Destrier came to a stop only a few yards in front of the truck, its smoky glass making it impossible to see the sedan’s occupants. Little Donnie and his men formed a line in front of the pick-up, preparing for battle. This was one turf war they were determined to win.
The driver’s door opened, and Mordred stepped out, the hard soles of his shiny leather boots making a scraping sound on the pebbled asphalt. Expecting other Flames to emerge from the car, Little Donnie and his men waited and watched.
But Mordred was alone and carried no weapon. He walked slowly toward Little Donnie’s line, showing no concern for the group of armed thugs standing before him.
“I’m looking for someone,” said Mordred. “A girl from Main named Penderhagen.” He removed his black fedora and brushed it nonchalantly with his fingers. “Apparently, she has some friends on this dirty little island of yours.” He looked up, studying the men’s faces, watching for a reaction. “An old man with a motorhome.” Mordred paused. “No? How about a younger one, drives a white sports car?” He arched his brow, pretending to be impressed. “It’s r-e-a-l nice, I doubt you’d forget it.”
He saw what he was looking for: a slight frown from one of the men, the one who’d been standing beside the truck when he arrived.
“So you can help me,” said Mordred. “Good, because I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
In a blur of motion, he was on them, words spilling from his lips, barely audible above the thuds and cracks of muscle and bone. Mordred spun along the line of men, arms and legs striking at all angles, evading the feeble thrusts of clubs and blades directed at him. One after another, the men fell, bleeding and broken.
Little Donnie crawled toward the truck, a shattered leg trailing behind him, blood seeping from his nose and ears. Mordred delivered a spinning kick to the big man’s throat, and he went down in a heap.
Only one islander was still conscious. Butch was sitting with his back against the Destrier’s front wheel, cradling an arm dislocated at the elbow. He couldn’t feel his legs, and the rest of his body quivered convulsively. Terrified eyes looked up at Mordred as he crouched beside him.
“The man with the white car,” said Mordred. “Where?”
Butch looked at the bodies strewn around him and burped out an answer, “The sh…shop. L…Lakeside. D…dead end.”
“Dead end,” repeated Mordred. He stood up and straightened his uniform.
Butch heard the strange words but didn’t see the kick coming.
CHAPTER 17
The white paneled door flew off its hinges in an explosion of splinters. Passing the stairs and the tall clock wedged in the corner, Mordred stalked into the main room through its archway, the soles of his boots clicking on the hardwood floor between islands of area rugs. He weaved his way between the tables covered with merchandise, but none of the items were of interest to him. The Incendi captain wasn’t hunting bargains; he was hunting people.
“Judging by your entrance, I doubt you care that we’re closed,” said Vivian, from behind the counter. The old woman showed no hint of fear. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I think you know,” replied Mordred. “The one who drives the white car and those he’s helping.”
“Oh, so you’ve met my nephew, Lance?”
“Yes, but he ran away,” said Mordred. “It’s what cowards do.”
“Oh, Lance is no coward,” said Vivian. “He’s a true Knight of Maren.” Her green eyes locked on the Incendi captain’s, “Not a heretic like you.”
Rage ignited in Mordred’s eyes. Muttering a string of words, he leapt across the counter and clenched his hand around Vivian’s throat, lifting her off the floor. He held her in his vise-like grip, taking pleasure in her futile gasps for air.
“You’ll tell me what I want to know,” said Mordred. Sneering at her, he mouthed another verse…
With the Grail Tome resting on the round table under the soft glow of the dome light overhead, Merl took his seat in the motorhome’s U-shaped booth and directed the others to join him.
“Arti,” he said, pointing a gloved finger, “take your place, as before.” He looked up at Gwen. “And you, Gwen, next to Arti, please.” Finally, with a nod, he invited Lance to sit, “Young knight, if you will.”
Merl seemed content with everyone’s position. An empty space remained where Arti had written the cryptic phrase Siegea Perilisi on the edge of the round table, and she was sure Merl planned it that way.
“This is the first meeting of the new Knights of Maren,” announced Merl, formally. “Like the book knights of old, each of us has a seat, and no place at this table has prominence over another. We are equals here.” He glanced at Arti, and she saw the message in his eyes: Gwen deserves your respect.
The old librarian intertwined his gloved fingers and straightened in his seat, adding weight to his words. “Together we share one goal: to take the undamaged Grail Tome from Morgan Fay, so Arti may write its final page. Our chance will come on Corporation Night when Fay is to perform the Lighting. And although we are one in this quest, each of us has a very important role to p
lay.
“Gwen, you know best the layout of the castle—save for Morgan Fay’s suite. My memory of the upper tower should help with that. It will be your job to provide us with a detailed plan, the best route to get inside and retrieve the tome.” Merl glanced at the floor where Gwen’s model of the ancient building was taking shape. “I like what you’ve done so far. Just remember, no detail is too small. When you’ve finished the model, we’ll use it to plan the mission. And on Corporation Night, you will act as guide.
“As the only one trained in The Verses, it will be your job, Lance, to protect Arti and Gwen from any…resistance.” Merl turned toward the young man, worry etched on his face. “Security will be very tight. Morgan won’t like leaving the book alone, so I expect you’ll be greeted by a significant number of Incendi guards. They’ll be armed with lighters. On their highest settings, a touch from one can kill.
“And there’s someone who poses an even greater threat. You know of whom I speak.”
“The man in black,” said Lance.
“Yes. Mordred would enjoy nothing more than killing you, and Arti, and Gwen, and me.” As the old librarian spoke, Arti wondered what Lance and Gwen would think if they knew Merl was talking about his own son.
“On my honor, I will do all I can to keep you safe,” vowed Lance, looking around the table at his quest mates. He was so passionate and sincere that Arti found herself staring at him after he spoke. When he noticed her attention, she quickly looked away, red-faced.
“You already know your task, Arti,” said Merl, irritated by her inattention. “We will continue your training with Excalibri. You must be prepared to write the final page of The History under very difficult circumstances. When Gwen and Lance get you into Fay’s office, the rest will be up to you. You must be ready.”
“I wrote with it,” said Arti, glancing down at the small wooden box holding the pen, “but I don’t know how I did it.” Her eyes pleaded with the old librarian, “I don’t know if I can do it again.”
The Book Knights Page 13