by Ines Johnson
Though his birth was dubious, that made him no less of an equal. At least not in her view. Her mother would definitely believe differently.
“The circumstances of your birth do not dictate the path of your life,” she said to him. “Only you can do that.”
He stared at her for a moment before saying, “Here, let me help you up.”
She hadn’t noticed that they were both still crouched down on the ground. She was leaning over him as he lay on his back. The position wasn’t proper, but it had felt so right being this near him that Gwin hadn’t noticed the impropriety.
Gwin straightened, coming first to her knees. The young man made to sit up but winced. There was a red mark on his arm where her witch fire had hit him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I can heal that.”
She reached out to his arm. She pulled from the well of magic that lived inside of her. There was plenty of herself to give, she didn’t need to tap into the ley energy that ran beneath the entire town.
His face lit in wonder as he watched her. His eyes stayed fastened on her face, not on what she was doing. Warmth flooded her as she touched his skin. She didn’t want to pull away from the sensation. She wanted to get closer to it.
“Do you feel that?” he asked.
“Feel what?” But she knew exactly what he was talking about. As she pulled on her magic, something else pushed its way into her being. The sensation pooled in her heart.
“It feels like the world coming into focus and making sense for the first time.” His eyes dipped to her lips.
It was like a tale out of a fairy story or a romance novel. It was what she'd always imagined falling in love would feel like. The moment was so ripe for a kiss. And then it all fell apart.
“You bastard.”
One moment, Gwin had seen her life laid out before her. So clear, so perfect, so right. The next moment, that feeling was yanked away from her as the man, whose name she still didn’t know, was wrenched from her.
It was the worst feeling, having her destiny stripped from her. Gwin looked up to see Sir Lancelot. His face inflamed a deeper shade of red than his hair.
“I knew I shouldn’t have brought you here, you ingrate.” Sir Lancelot was so angry that spittle collected at the sides of his mouth.
The young man who was his mirror image from younger days scrambled to his feet. His head had been high, even when he’d called himself that foul word. Now it hung low at hearing it hurled from another. “Nothing happened father-”
“Don’t you dare call me that. You’re nothing but a by-blow. And now I catch you taking advantage of a lady.”
“He didn’t take advantage,” said Gwin. “He was wounded. I was healing him.”
“He’s beneath your notice, my lady,” said Sir Lancelot. “If I could smite out his existence with this sword, I would”
Sir Lancelot raised the blade as though to strike. The young man didn’t cower. He stood tall and proud, ready to take his punishment. But Sir Lancelot was having trouble moving the sword.
The elder knight’s eyes widened, going from his son to the sword. Sir Lancelot struggled as though he were trying to hang on to the blade, not slice it downward.
“No,” growled Sir Lancelot, now using both hands to hang onto his blade. “Not him.”
The sword didn’t listen to its former master; as magical swords were wont to do when their former master’s time was up. The sword slipped from Sir Lancelot’s grip and hovered before his son.
1
a century later…
There was something satisfying about the clashing of swords. The blades made a ringing noise which sounded to Lancelot like chimes. It was musical really, especially when the opponent was a practiced artist of swordplay.
Lance’s last opponent had made a terrible gnashing sound with his blade as he struck down like the amateur that he was. The sound so offended Lance’s ears that he’d quickly dispatched the man and the poor, unpracticed lump was now lying still on the floor, a mortal wound leaching his life from him.
This current swordsman made a better sound with his weapon. Instead of constant overhaul strikes like a mallet hitting a gong, the man had some skill with his upward strikes, parries, and ripostes. But all of his rigor made it clear to Lance that the man was trained in the pretty dance of fencing.
Even worse, the man had obviously learned sword fighting from a dainty French teacher. Most of the modern day order of the Knights Templar received such instruction. It was a tradition that was unsustainable, especially against a brawler born in the Highlands like Lance.
Loren, Dame Galahad, was fond of calling Lance the Highlander after a movie series of sword-carrying immortals who fought to the death with long blades. A fencer’s foil was a fool’s weapon. Their technique was no match for him. Loren was the only fencer who could meet his metal. This man was no Loren.
The man’s sword clashing against Lance’s did make for some interesting music, however. The melody of the Templar’s thin blade to Lance’s thick steel was pleasant to Lance’s ear. Too bad it was clear that by the crescendo of this particular song that his opponent would not win.
Lance easily got under the man’s defense with his blade. Secace, the sword of the Lancelots ripped open the Templar’s traditional white tunic. Blood seeped from the red cross over the man’s shirt exposing the man’s bird-like chest.
The Templar looked down at his ruined wardrobe and skin. He glared up at Lance. “You bastard.”
A tick started in Lance’s eye. His jaw ground. He rolled his neck, but he couldn’t shake the sound of his father’s voice in his head. “Don’t much like that word.”
Once upon a time in his life, Lance hadn’t minded it. It was technically what he was after all; a child born out of wedlock. But the circumstances of his birth didn’t dictate the path of his life. Since learning that wise lesson, he’d been determined to become the most devout man, the most chivalric knight in history. And he’d succeeded.
“It’ll be the last word you hear, bastard.”
Secace positively vibrated in Lance’s grasp. The magical sword didn’t take to the word either. The moment Lance’s father had hurled it at him over a century ago, the sword had left the elder Lancelot and chosen the illegitimate son.
The Templar’s blade clashed again with Secace. The battle hymn was approaching its final note. Unfortunately, the sound of the Templar’s blade struck a wrong note. With a kick to the solar plexus, Lance knocked the man off balance. Then with a pirouette, the only French move in his arsenal, he brought down his sword. Blood splattered, playing the final notes of this death march.
“Lance, stop dicking around,” called Percival. “We’ve got a quest to complete.”
Lance turned to find the dark knight peering out of a room in the Templar’s not-so-well-hidden bungalow. They’d managed to sneak into the Templar hideout virtually undetected.
Templars were the sworn enemies of the Knights of Camelot. The order believed witches were the children of Eve and the Devil—a result of the Devil’s temptation from when Eve ate the apple. They believed all witches and wizards were set on seducing humanity to the dregs of evil.
Witches were some of the most beautiful women of creation. They could be seductive to get their way. However, they lived by the same chivalric code as knights. Most of them, anyway.
There was some truth to the story of the forbidden fruit from a tree. But the Templars’ version was largely out of context. And besides, God never condemned Eve. It was Her work that the knights were doing—keeping magic out of the hands of erratic humans.
The Templars were determined to capture and destroy anything magical. That included books, artifacts, and magical beings. Lance pulled his sword from the downed Templar’s stiff body.
Though Lance had quickly dispatched of these two Templars, he hadn’t done it quietly. He felt others stirring above. He and Percy might have to confront the cavalry soon. If the backup brigade was on par with the advan
ced guard, Lance didn’t give a care.
He walked into the room where Percy sat at a computer console. Lance barred the door behind him. Then he turned and did an inventory of the space.
The room reminded him of the Weapons Room back home. The sanctuary of the knights and squires sat just above the dungeons of Tintagel Castle. Here, in the enemy lair, were swords and other medieval weaponry on the walls. Templar robes hung on a rack in one corner next to business suits and jeans.
Were these men part-time fighters? Lance felt insulted. His entire life was devoted to the cause.
In another corner, there was a window. Looking out, Lance saw it led to a wooded area. As Percy clacked on the computer, Lance checked the latch of the window. It gave easily. There were bars at the window, but they were nothing to a magical sword with a supernaturally sharp blade. Escape would be easy.
“Malegant’s long gone,” said Percy when Lance came to join him over the computer console. “Those were just the second string out there.”
“More like third string,” grumbled Lance. He’d been itching for some action for days. He had a lot of pent up energy that needed somewhere to go. The pursuit of Camelot’s newest villain was the perfect outlet.
Malegant was the latest Templar leader to rise through the waning ranks of the crippled order. Only a year ago, Lance and his brethren had dispensed of the senior leadership, cut off their source of income, and seized much of their land. Only small pockets like Malegant’s existed any longer.
Unlike the Knights of Camelot who were born to the station, new Templars could be recruited and trained. Though poorly.
The knights had Malegant’s son, Simon Accolon, in their possession back in the dungeons of Tintagel. Accolon was a physicist who had been working on discovering new elements on the Periodic Table. He hadn’t discovered one. Lady Morgan had. That element was the core of magic.
Accolon had tried to steal the element from Morgan. He’d nearly succeeded before Arthur took him down. And now the scientist was spilling all that he knew about his father’s plans.
Percy, the computer wiz of the knights, had tracked Malegant to this bungalow in Tripoli. Tripoli was one of the last Crusader states. There were ancient scrolls, an arsenal of vintage weapons, and even miles of mysterious concoctions throughout this hideout. But the Templars had touched none of these. Left on the ancient desk was a modern computer with no passcode locking the screen.
“Malegant must have known we were coming and fled,” said Lance.
“Without taking or even locking his computer?” Percy scoffed. “It’s too convenient. It’s as though he wants us to follow him.”
“Have you found anything that might indicate where he’s heading next?”
“There’s just more gibberish about the stone army.”
It sounded like gibberish, but Lance knew better than to discount it. He’d seen flowers raise their heads and blink their stamen eyes. He’d seen dragons take to the sky. He knew that in Greece, Loren and her BFF Dr. Nia Rivers had battled a Titan god who'd risen from a stony grave.
Lance lived amongst witches and wizards. A spell to animate stones wasn’t too farfetched. A Templar resorting to magic, however, was baffling.
There was a commotion outside the door. It seemed the new recruits of the Templars had found their hidey hole. Both Lance and Percy ignored the banging and puzzled over the information on the computer screen.
“He seems to be retracing the steps of the Grand Masters of the Knights Templar. Jacques de Molay spent a lot of his time here in the East Outremer.”
The Outremer literally translated to “overseas” in French. It included the territories of Crusader states, principalities, and lands taken during the First Crusade. Tripoli in northern Lebanon was one such Outremer.
“De Molay was the last Grand Master,” said Percy. “But there’s also notes about the first.”
“You mean Hugo de Payens?”
De Payens was a name all of Camelot knew. He was a descendant of the first family of Camelot. He’d betrayed the knights and broken the alliance between the original Templars and Camelot.
“The last entry makes reference to Champagne,” said Percy.
Lance knew Percy wasn’t talking about the beverage. He meant the region in France; another important place in history for the Knights of Camelot and the Knights Templar alike.
“Let’s take this information back to Camelot, see if we can make some sense of it.”
Both Lance and Percy’s heads lifted as the banging on the door increased.
“Looks like we’re done here.” Percy shut down the device and looked to the window. “Shall we make our escape?”
Lance pressed his thumb on the rounded pommel of his sword. The magical blade retracted and folded itself into a Cairngorm brooch, trading the cold steel gray for the brown rock crystal of the mountains where he was born. All magical swords were able to shift their shapes so that the knights could hide their magic in plain sight in these modern times.
Arthur's sword, Excalibur, transformed into a pen. Loren's sword, which she'd renamed Inigo after some film, had hidden itself from her as a cane until she claimed her family's seat. Though Lance no longer wore a plaid, he pinned his sword to his shirt at the fabric near his chest.
“And look, this will be a first,” said Percy. “You didn’t get wounded.”
"Of course, I didn't. Those amateurs aren't worth my blade." Lance walked toward the window. Through the glass, the forest was free and clear.
“That means there’s no need to visit the infirmary.”
Lance’s hand froze on the latch to the window. His gripped tightened on the loose handle. “It won’t budge. Looks like we’ll have to fight our way out.”
“Hmmm.” Percy twisted his lips. “Imagine that.”
Lance pulled the brooch from his shirt. Instead of meeting the other knight’s gaze, he pressed the center gem that would release his blade. He went to the door and opened it. The last thing he heard before the battle cries of ten Templars was Percy’s muttered curse.
“And they say I’m the crazy one,” came the grumbled complaint of Percy before he too rushed into the fray.
2
Gwin felt her heart beating in her fingertips. Her hands were empty, palms sweaty as she faced this big decision, a decision that would impact the future of all of the residents of Camelot for generations to come.
Her choice blared brightly in front of her eyes. Her two options flashed, urging her to decide.
Did she want to update to the newest version of Windows? Yes, or No?
It was a major decision in the realm of file management. Stick with the tried and true? Or risk the brave new version?
She hit the Yes button. Without risk, there was no reward.
Gwin wasn’t known for her risky or risqué behaviors. Since becoming Lady of the Castle nearly a century ago, she’d toed the line, stayed on track, kept her hands clean, and did her duty. Just as she’d been raised to by her mother, trained to do by Lady Merylin, and expected to do by all of the people of the town.
The screen flashed blue. When it blinked back on, all that remained was a status bar. It read 1% complete. It estimated its task would not be finished for two hours.
Gwin tapped her fingers on the desk. All was orderly on the tabletop. She’d finished putting the castle’s ledgers in order. She’d placed all the orders for the month. The printer had already printed the last report before she started the update.
Though she lived in the modern age, she still liked to keep with some of the old ways. Lady Merylin had written everything down by hand. Gwin preferred the printed word to her own handwriting. She placed her sheets in the ledger alongside Lady Merylin’s old binders. Hundreds of years of order were all in alignment.
Gwin sighed and pushed back from the desk. Her work here was nearly done. Soon, her sister would take over and Gwin would be free to …
Well, she didn’t know exactly what she’d do. But she did kno
w there was plenty left to do. And there was no time like the present to get started.
Gwin waved her hand in the air. Magic flowed from her fingertips and pushed the pages in the ledgers a smidge until they were all in perfect alignment. With everything in order, she marched purposefully to the door of her office. She was uncertain of which direction she’d turn on the other side, but she’d cross the bridge once she crossed the threshold. Before she reached the threshold, the office door crashed open. Her sister slammed the door behind herself and then slumped against the closed frame.
“Morgan?” Gwin reached out to her sister, prepared to heal whatever ailed her.
“Save me,” said Morgan.
There wasn’t a scratch on Morgan or her graphic T-shirt. No bruise on her exposed olive skin. No tears in her blue eyes.
“Let me guess,” said Gwin. “Wedding planning?”
“It’s like I’m walking in a real, live nightmare. Like my real-life is literally a bad dream.” Morgan turned the lock on Gwin’s office door before coming deeper inside to slump in the chair in front of the desk.
Gwin tried to hide a smile but failed. Her baby sister was getting married. The man hadn't been the one of Morgan's dreams. But that was only because Morgan had never dreamed of getting married. Love never worked out as one planned it. Gwin knew that better than anyone.
"There are fittings and tastings," Morgan moaned. "I'm being asked about the silverware. What do I care about the silverware? We can eat off of paper plates and plastic, reusable forks. It would be better for the environment."
Gwin winced. “I hope you didn’t say that suggestion out loud.”
"You'd think I'd asked to have an orgy at my wedding with their reaction."
Pretty much. With the old biddies of the town, it was a sacrilege request. Though Camelot existed in the modern day, there were some things that were simply traditional in this ancient town filled with people from the Dark Ages to the Enlightenment and the Industrial Age.