Ruins of Camelot

by G. Norman Lippert

  She scrambled quickly upright and looked back. Behind and above her, the cave mouth was a black crevice surrounded by snow-covered boulders. The dragon still raged from within, its roars echoing dimly, the ground trembling with its wild rampage. Gabriella struggled to her feet, slipping on the cold ground, and retreated some distance further away from the cave. She found a large boulder, ducked into its shadow, and collapsed with fear-induced exhaustion.

  She was trembling, and the trembles were quickly turning to shivers in the frosty cold. She hugged herself and tried to calm her thoughts.

  After a while, the noise of the dragon diminished and faded away. Silence fell over the snowy landscape. At first, this was a relief. Then Gabriella began to fear that the dragon had smelled her. Perhaps it was stalking her, creeping along the frozen grass behind her.

  Carefully, she rolled onto her knees and peered around the side of the boulder, forcing herself to look.

  There was no sign of the dragon on the hillside. The snow was broken only by the zigzagging tracks of her own feet. Then she reminded herself that dragons could fly. She peered up into the blinding white of the sky.

  Something was indeed flying overhead, but it was far smaller than the dragon. It was Featherbolt, and he seemed to be carrying something, labouring with the added weight. He circled, seemed to spy her, and let out a distant screech. Silently, he began to wheel down towards her, and she saw that he was carrying the driftwood torch in his talons. The goblinfire streaked into the cold air, nearly invisible in the glaring whiteness.

  Gabriella reached up and caught the torch as Featherbolt reached her.

  "You must think yourself pretty brave," she commented gratefully, her teeth chattering in the cold.

  He landed atop the boulder and shook himself, fluffing his feathers. He screeched thinly and looked away out over the cold, white hills. Gabriella followed his gaze.

  They had indeed passed beyond the Cragrack Cliffs. Here, the ground was broken into rolling hills, many peaked with black rocks and outcroppings of brush and trees. Further north, standing like pale blue saw teeth against the white sky, was a range of mountains. Largest of these was the centre peak, Mount Skelter. In its shadow, Gabriella knew, she would find the unusual, round valley ringed with jagged foothills known as the Theatre of the Broken Crown. She was only a few days away. Her quest, hopeless as it might be, was near an end.

  "Perhaps Coalroot was wrong," she said to herself, staring into the distance at that faint, uneven peak. "Perhaps…"

  But she did not believe it. That was why the witch Helena had insisted that she, Gabriella, visit the volcano spirit. "He will tell you everything you need to know," she had declared cryptically. Now Gabriella knew exactly what she had intended. Helena had meant to dissuade her, to show her the deadly foolishness of her errand. It hadn't worked, of course.

  Because Coalroot had not told her anything that she had not, in her deepest heart, already known.

  After a short rest, warmed by the magical fire of her torch, Gabriella began the final leg of her journey.

  Chapter 9

  Three men sat around a rough, wooden table lit by the afternoon light of a small window.

  "There," the largest of the men said flatly, plinking a short stack of coins onto the table and pushing it next to two similar stacks. He had a square, sunburnt face and meaty forearms. He crossed them before his leather tack vest. "The takings for one week. Like I have already told you, this is far more than average. It is the peak of the season after all."

  Yazim nodded equably and bent to scribble a note on a piece of thick parchment. Thomas frowned and looked around the low room. There were four other tables besides the bar, but only one patron was visible, and Thomas suspected that it was the proprietor's father. The old man leant against the wall in his chair, hands folded over his thin chest, snoring faintly.

  Yazim tapped the parchment with his quill. "How many cattle and horses did you say you keep, sir?"

  "Three and two," the proprietor answered without blinking. "My best packhorse broke a leg last autumn, and we had to put her down. It has been a true challenge without her, guv'nor, do not doubt it."

  "I do not," Yazim replied sincerely. "How long have you operated this establishment then, sir?"

  "Four winters. The first two were the hardest. Barely made a copper, what with all the building and repair. The place bore hardly a standing wall when we moved into it. Almost starved, we did."

  Yazim nodded. His quill scritched on the parchment. "And this is why you have not yet reported this establishment to the local tax authority?"

  The proprietor nodded warily. "I been meaning to, you understand. Fair is fair. Me and the missus, we always mean to do our part, small as it might be."

  Thomas sighed and looked around. "It must get dreadfully lonely out here once the peak season ends," he commented, raising an eyebrow, "if this is how it is when business is at its height. Travel and livery must not be a particularly thriving industry this far off the main roads."

  "Right you are, guv'nor," the proprietor agreed somewhat suspiciously. "Why, we can go weeks at a stretch with nary a passer-by."

  "Makes one wonder," Thomas pressed evenly, meeting the proprietor's eyes, "why one would go to the trouble to operate an inn in such a place."

  "Simple human kindness, I expect," Yazim announced, rolling the quill and ink pot up into the parchment and stashing both into his pack. "A quality we see far too little of in the city proper, I am afraid. Thank you, good sir. You may expect a friendly visit from the tax constabulatory of this region within the year. For our part, however, we bid you good day."

  With that, Yazim stood, and Thomas moved to join him. The proprietor blinked up at Yazim and then down at the small stacks of coins on the table. A question seemed to form on his face, but it vanished quickly. He began to scoop the coins into the hollow of one huge, callused palm.

  "Always a pleasure to host the agents of the King," he said loudly, as if to cover the clink of his coins. "As I say, me and the missus, we just want to do our part. Glad to be of service. Fare thee well then, gentlemen. Safe travels."

  Ten minutes later, the two were astride their horses again, cantering away from the stone inn along a barely visible road.

  "I've enjoyed better accommodations in barbarian prison camps," Thomas declared, glancing back.

  "As a descendent of those 'barbarians' myself," Yazim commented smoothly, "I suggest that that might say more about the differences between our cultures' concepts of hospitality than it does about that specific inn."

  Thomas frowned and shook his head. "I shall dismiss the fact that you did not collect any surtax from the proprietor. But you must know he stables more than two horses. There were four stalls, and all of them fresh. Why did you let him account for only the two?"

  Yazim smiled a little crookedly and urged his horse onwards. "A taxpayer who believes he is outsmarting his government can be a surprisingly loyal citizen. Revolutions do not grow well amongst such people, for they fear that a new ruler may be less easy to fool. That kind of security is worth a few lost coppers a year."

  "Did you learn this from the Archduke himself? Somehow, I failed to perceive that directive when we were assigned our duty," Thomas mused, looking aside at his friend.

  Yazim shrugged. "We 'barbarians' are adept at reading between the lines."

  Thomas nodded. They rode for a few minutes in silence. The roadway turned, passed into a thicket of new trees. The shadows felt cool after the hard light of the afternoon sun.

  Finally, Thomas said, "Speaking of reading between the lines, I have been thinking upon your tale."

  "Indeed."

  "Indeed. And I am forced to wonder how much of it really is true and how much of it is, well, pure fancy. No disrespect intended, for it is quite a good tale and I am rather enthralled by it, and yet…"

  Yazim pursed his lips sympathetically. "It does seem rather fantastic, yes. In truth, I had not thought upon the tale in
many years, not since I was a child. Youth is far quicker than adulthood to absorb such things as wizards and werewolves, volcano spirits and dragons."

  Thomas seemed mildly disappointed. "Does this mean that you do not believe the story yourself?"

  Yazim drew a long breath. The clop of the horses' hooves was loud in the afternoon stillness. "I do not disbelieve it," he answered, "but I do not believe it the same way I once did. Not yet at least."

  Thomas glanced at his friend. "What does that mean?"

  "It means that it has been a long time since magic tainted the world. Its power is mostly gone from the land. But hints of it remain, giving evidence of a time much different than that which we know."

  "You have witnessed this evidence?"

  Yazim considered. "I have sensed it," he replied thoughtfully. "We are, after all, on the verge of that land once known, in the time of Camelot, as the Tempest Barrens. Now it is merely an uncharted wilderness, dotted with small forests and populated mostly by nomads. The magic is gone from the land, but the land has not forgotten it. Do you not sense it?"

  Thomas shook his head. "I sense you attempting to spook me as the evening descends but nothing more. And I daresay it will not work. With the derelict castle far behind us, your tale has become increasingly that: a tale. But do not let that stop your telling of it. It interests me greatly, even if it is pure fantasy."

  "That way station," Yazim said, almost to himself, "it is old. Far older than even the proprietor knows. The stone of its walls speaks of centuries, not decades. It may be that what we saw, the inn in which we stayed this night past, is rebuilt from the very place that the Princess, Gabriella Xavier herself, passed as a ruin, the cursed way station that marked her crossing into the Tempest Barrens." Yazim's gaze sharpened, and he looked askance at his companion. "The curse may be long passed from the land, but there is something bent about that place nonetheless. Tell me that you did not feel it."

  Thomas frowned. He glanced at the darker man and then looked away again. "I slept within its walls. I still breathe today with it behind us."

  "And yet you are relieved," Yazim commented, narrowing his eyes slightly. "This is why you did not press for any surtax. You, like me, were glad to be shut of the place. You sensed its wrongness, same as me. You need not admit it. I see it on your very face."

  "You see only weariness and irritation," Thomas sighed, still not meeting his friend's gaze. "But I admit to being glad that the place is behind us, if only because sleeping under the stars is more comfortable than those damned ratty mattresses."

  Yazim accepted this with a slow nod. They rode on.

  "The Cragrack Cliffs are still there," he mused aloud. "Even now, they present a daunting pass for man or army. To this day, there are rumours of endless tunnels and caverns, lost cities hidden beneath the scrubby wilderness."

  "But Camelot is dead," Thomas declared. "Even if your tale is true, the Princess could not have succeeded in her quest."

  Yazim shrugged. "There are many measures of success," he suggested enigmatically. Thomas scoffed but merely shook his head.

  "Where are we off to now?" he asked after a minute. "North, into the Barrens itself?"

  "No. There is nothing there of interest to the Kingdom of Aachen. We head East now."

  "East?" Thomas repeated, glancing aside. "Our mission was to travel north, then follow the feudal highway back south and east, visiting the townships along the way. The East is well accounted for."

  "The eastern border, yes," Yazim agreed. "But not the middle lands. There may be something there."

  Thomas frowned quizzically. "What are you not telling me, Yazim? You are hiding something."

  "Something may indeed be hiding," Yazim smiled in agreement, "but our aim is to reveal it. Fear not. If I am wrong, we will merely extend our journey by a week. If I am right, the Archduke will reward our thoroughness."

  "You believe there is a village in the hills?" Thomas prodded, tilting his head. "Is this part of your strange history?"

  Yazim merely nudged his horse onwards with a click of his tongue.

  Thomas sighed. "Intriguing, I admit. But it hardly seems worth the journey just to discover some forgotten hamlet in the forested foothills. The taxes will likely be a pittance."

  "We do not search merely for taxes, Thomas," Yazim said loftily.

  "Amuse me then," Thomas replied, shaking his head. "For what do we search?"

  Yazim smiled faintly as the two of them passed beneath the trees. "We search for something far more valuable than coin," he answered quietly. "We search for information. We search… for evidence."

  Thomas's frown deepened, but he did not protest the change in plans.

  The sun began to descend into evening, stretching the trees' shadows across the road. The two travelers made good progress, enjoying the companionable silence. Finally, Thomas spoke up again.

  "Tell me, at the very least, that the beast Merodach was destroyed in the end."

  Yazim smiled grimly. "Does it matter? As you say, it may be that there never was such person. It is a mere fairy story."

  "I did not say that. I expressed a logical skepticism. Tell me the ending and do not tease me."

  Yazim's smile faded. "I cannot, I am afraid. There is a bit more of the story to tell, but the final ending is not a part of it."

  "Curse you," Thomas fumed impatiently. "How can you say this? Why will you not tell me the ending?"

  Yazim sighed deeply. "Because," he admitted reluctantly, "no one alive knows it. The ballad of the Princess Gabriella ends with a mystery. Many have guessed outcomes, but none can recount the truth with certainty."

  "Curse you a thousand times," Thomas cried, but he didn't really mean it. "Very well then. Tell me the rest of what you know. I will make up my own damn ending if need be."

  Yazim seemed to agree to this. He collected his thoughts as the sun continued to descend towards the horizon. Finally, he drew a breath and said, "The Princess's journey was nearing its completion, and yet the hardest part was yet to come. The most difficult obstacle of all lay before her."

  "What shall it be now?" Thomas demanded wearily. "Ghosts? Demons? Giant two-headed billy goats? What fantastic enemy was yet to befall her?"

  Yazim laughed drily. "The worst one of all," he replied. "The enemy of all who travel the empty wilderness. Gabriella's final challenge… was starvation."

  Gabriella melted snow for water, but the lack of food began to wear on her by the time darkness fell on her second day above ground. She made camp in the hollow of a steep hill, planted the goblinfire torch into the earth, and considered eating some of the frozen yellow grass. She knew it would bear no sustenance for her, even if she could manage to keep it down. Perhaps tomorrow she would find another gift pile of berries left by her secret midnight visitors. She did not hope greatly in this however. Since leaving the dragon's cave, she had seen virtually no sign of life save for the very occasional track of a wild hare.

  The thought of hare made her mouth water frustratingly. She had no bow, and the trapping techniques she had practised at the academy were woefully forgotten. Why would a Princess need to learn to catch food? she had thought to herself at the time. Now, slowly starving in the darkening cold, she remembered this and laughed with bitter irony.

  Featherbolt circled the evening sky far above, seeking his own dinner. She watched. Eventually, he tucked his wings and dove towards the ground, transforming himself into a hurtling feathered arrow, proving his name. A few minutes later, he appeared in the shadow of the hollow, the half-devoured remains of a mouse in his talons. He dropped this near the torch, as if offering it to Gabriella.

  "Thanks, Featherbolt," she sighed, smiling. "You saved me the best bits, didn't you? The head and the tail."

  She could not bring herself to eat his offering, but it was a close thing. If she did not find food tomorrow, she may indeed be happy to consume a mouse head. She shuddered, and yet her stomach growled eagerly at the prospect.

&n
bsp; She slept.

  Hauntingly vivid dreams visited her that night. She dreamt of Merodach in his stronghold surrounded by the corpses of those she loved. Darrick was there, pale and bloody, as was Rhyss, looking pathetically emaciated in her bridesmaid dress. Gabriella's mother lay in a dried pool of black blood, her eyes open, horribly empty in the darkness.

  Worse, her father was there as well, impaled by a rusty sword. Next to him was Sigrid and the Little Prince, laid out on the floor like cordwood, dead but not buried, never buried.

  Goethe was there as well. His body was propped upright against a pillar.

  Merodach grinned and stalked through this, laughing to himself. He paced over the dead bodies, nearly stepping on them or kicking them aside as he passed, and Gabriella tried to shout out to him, to beg him not to hurt them any more.

  They're already dead! she tried to scream through sealed lips. Please, don't hurt them any more! Let me come to them and take them away and honour them with a decent burial! Please!

  But the madman did not hear her. He paced endlessly, humming thoughtfully and drumming his fingers on his short beard, and every time his shadow passed over those pale faces, Gabriella cringed with helpless misery, unable to look away but horrified to watch.

  And then Goethe began to move. He was dead, and yet he pushed himself fully upright, standing independent of the pillar he'd been leant against. His eyes did not look at anything, but they turned towards her blankly. His lips peeled back in a parody of a smile, showing rotten teeth and black gums. His right hand raised jerkily, like the arm of a string marionette, and then dropped clumsily to the sword on his wasted hips. It missed, jerked again, and then gripped the hilt. Slowly, the corpse withdrew the sword from its scabbard. The blade was tacky with dried blood.

  Goethe's body began to walk. It was a thoroughly inhuman walk, each step a different length, the feet slapping bonelessly to the ground. The head lolled, still grinning. The sword raised into the air. He was going to dismember the bodies for no other reason than Merodach's black amusement.