The Knight

by Kim Dragoner

  Chapter Six

  Cumbria, England

  The army of Camelot marched through the day and through the night.

  Rest was scarce, and the mood was grim. The sky, while not making a return to the torrential rain that had plagued the journey north, remained foreboding and full of ominous blackened clouds.

  As they traveled, Rhys saw even more peasants and villagers retreating south, fleeing the advance of Mordred’s armies with the scant possessions they could salvage and carry on their pack animals and on their own backs. It was a grim sight, and the occasional friar they passed blessed the soldiers, as if they were already amongst the dead. A few men with strength in their arms and pride in their hearts left the ranks of the refugees and took up arms with Rhys’ retinue, swelling their numbers slightly as they went.

  At midday on the second day, the advance scouts reported that the villages surrounding Kendal had been put to the torch. Nothing stirred, as if the north had been scoured of every little thing. Not even carrion birds had been seen. The column moved on and made their camp the second night a morning’s ride away from Kendal, the better to gather their forces and form into regiments.

  Soon, the dawn broke bright and clear. Rhys dressed in the padded jerkin he usually wore under his armor, drew back the flaps of his tent and stopped in his tracks, words forming on his lips but none uttered. Standing in the circle made by the tents of the Sons of the Round Table, just by the fire upon which Richard of Dumnonia’s squire had cooked a brace of pheasant the evening before, was an elderly man clad in a deep gray cowl. His beard was long, and the purest white; and he stood with the assistance of a long oak staff, gnarled and curled at the topmost end. He regarded Rhys with an utterly emotionless gaze which betrayed nothing about his thoughts, but made Rhys feel as if he were some small mouse who had foolishly caught the attention of a great owl. From the corner of his eye, he saw Richard similarly emerge from his tent, stretching and yawning, stripped to the waist.

  “What ho!” he said, waking up rapidly at the uncommon visitor’s appearance. “Say, fellow, this is no place for an old man. This army rides to battle this day. Do you not know what has transpired?”

  The old man did not take his eyes from Rhys, but spoke in a clear baritone voice that showed none of the decrepitude of his ancient years.

  “Battle, faugh. War? Hmm. Bad business. What do you boys know of war? To ride into battle without knowledge is to swim with an anvil around the neck. Kendal is gone, boy. Do you not know this already?” His eyes bored into Rhys’ skull, but with a great effort, Rhys managed to stand up straight and close his gaping mouth.

  “Well then, Kendal must be avenged!” cried Richard, and the noise of his exclamation brought Gawain and John out of their own shelters. They did not speak, but regarded the interaction with interest.

  “Aye, Kendal must be avenged,” Rhys agreed, “but our visitor is correct. We do not know what forces await us.”

  Richard was about to speak, anger writ on his face. Rhys held up his hand to stop his words. “Peace, cousin. Whether we know what lies ahead of us or not, our honor demands that we ride this very moment to avenge fair Kendal, and know the fate of our brothers Sir Derrick and Sir Henry. What business do you have with us, old man, that you interrupt the sons of the Knights of Arthur’s Round Table from their just revenge?”

  The old man leaned on his staff, pointing his beaked face like a hawk at Rhys. His steel gray eyes locked with Rhys’ green, and when he spoke, it was as the thunder itself, though his mouth barely moved.

  “I am older than you can possibly know, Sir Rhys of Gascogne, nephew of Caradoc, son of Gwallawc, grandson of Anlawdd.” His booming voice appeared to only be present in Rhys’ own mind, as Richard, Gawain and John seemed barely to move, barely to even breathe. Rhys was forced to his knees by the sonic assault. “In the time before times I was old, and I have come before you now to bring you words of fell terror. You must not ride to Kendal. Your quest is not with your brother knights, noble though they may be. Though you are but a babe in arms, it is sure that you are Nestaron, The Warrior of The Tree, Elf-bane, Bow Master, Lover of the Fae Grove. Do you understand? Seek the Orchard of Rinnah, and end this doomed journey. I, Merlin of the Seventh Star, command thee.” The booming voice faded, and the world breathed again. Rhys felt a terror and pain in his chest, and then Richard was helping him to his feet.

  “Rhys, are you well? You seem sick, as if a shade has fallen on your heart,” he said, concerned.

  Rhys’ voice came in a whispered, cracked croak like dried leaves.

  “The old man, he…” His words failed him. Richard looked at him as if he had lost his wits entirely.

  “Old man? What old man do you speak of? The oldest soldier we have is no more than nine and thirty.”

  Rhys pointed his hand to where Merlin had stood, but when his eyes found the spot, Merlin had gone. It was if he had never stood there, and evidently Richard had no memory of speaking to the most powerful wizard of all time. He lowered his hand, unsure what to say. Fortunately, Richard had other things on his mind.

  “Dreams are well enough, Rhys. Today we make deeds to fill the dreams of a land. To battle we ride!”

  “To battle,” Rhys said, feeling quite ill.

  ***

  Kendal, Cumbria, England

  The army reached Kendal at noon, and the sight of the broken, defiled walls was terrible indeed. The army was arrayed itself into two regiments, flanking the mounted knights. Their pennants flew from the tips of their lances, displaying the colors of the towns they hailed from and the gold streamer of Camelot. The soldiers of the line bore their battle standards; different colored tabards from all the various liege lords adorned them. Though many of their greatest warriors were abroad with King Arthur putting the Romans and Gauls to flight, it was a stern force of men, disciplined and ready for battle.

  “Look there!” shouted Sir Gawain. “To the west! Viking raiders retreat!”

  Rhys looked, and it was true. A gate had opened on the west wall, which was mostly destroyed in any case. Several score of Vikings bearing axes and short swords were exiting the town, no doubt headed back to their long ships. The warriors from the north ran past the towering sentinels that were two trebuchet of prodigious size, but did not appear to see the forces of Camelot at all. Blood rose in Rhys’ ears, and he spurred Broderick forward. The great charger clanked with his armor as his rider, the surrogate son of King Arthur, turned and addressed the force before him. Though the vision of Merlin was still rooted in his mind, his words were meaningless now. Nestaron. Orchard. Bow Master. What meaning could they have; how could he leave his brothers and abandon his duty?

  “Knights, soldiers of the realm, Kendal lays raped before you. We cannot allow this! We drive this scum back into the sea! We retake fair Kendal, and put to death any who remain within and defile her with their presence! For King Arthur! For Camelot! Charge, in the name of your fathers!”

  There was a great roar from the soldiers, and Rhys wheeled about to join the leaping horses of his brothers. The thunder of hooves filled the air, louder even than the words of Merlin that same morning. The soldiers ran on foot, but were soon left behind the charge of the young knights. As they approached, the Vikings saw them come, and were dismayed. Many turned to level weapons at the knights, but without pikes or spears to fend off the charge the morale of their kin wavered. Half began to flee, to be whipped back into line by their grim captains. The charge crushed the Viking shield wall in a spray of shattering lances, splintered wood, flying hooves and cleaved helms. Rhys lanced a brutish warrior squarely in the throat, the man died wordlessly as Broderick leaped and powered into his enemies, hooves lashing out to cave in skulls. Rhys threw his ruined lance down, and drew his sword. The midday sun gleamed on the blade as he slashed here and there; blows were fended off by war axes, but the skill of the knights was too great for the un-mounted reavers.

  Though they were but six knights, the Viking force was red
uced to only half their number before the wave of foot soldiers arrived and put the last of them to the spear. The battle ended with the last warrior cut down by Richard in hot gouts of blood. Silence fell. There were no cheers, this was no victory; merely the beginning of retribution to come. Rhys pushed up the visor on his dragon helm. No knight had fallen to the axes of the Vikings, and it appeared that there were only light injuries to the rank and file men. He spurred Broderick to where Richard was delivering mercy to his fatally wounded opponent. His sword flashed, and the man moaned no more. The glory of battle pumped in Rhys’ veins, he felt ready to fight again, to kill again.

  “Ho, Richard! Do you feel we children are blooded now? We are triumphant! Onward, to Kendal!”

  Rhys’ words were premature. Spilling out of the Kendal’s west gate was a host of black garbed warriors, supported by very many, that were by his judgment, men of Celtic and Pictish blood.

  “Looks like these fellows would give us battle before we see Kendal, my brother,” Richard said, and slammed his visor shut. “We shall meet them then! Revenge, my kinsmen!”

  The knights reformed, without their lances this time. The soldiers hastily made their formations once again, although they were not as tight and not as fine looking as before, sprayed as they were with the blood of their Viking foes. The dark host approached, and Rhys saw the ashen gray pallor, the red eyes and high helms of their warriors.

  “Hells teeth!” he cursed. “What manner of men are these?”

  No one answered him, and in moments, the battle was joined anew. The warriors fought more fiercely than the Vikings, and there were far more of them. At least as many as the forces of Camelot were engaged in battle, and as Rhys hacked and slashed, more seemed to be joining the fray. The gray-skinned creatures fought with vigor and wickedly curved blades. A crashing blow struck Rhys in the breastplate, and he was nearly dismounted. The warrior he was engaged with sliced at his suddenly exposed throat, and then he was gone as Sir Owen thundered into the ranks atop his beautiful white steed. The knight slew another, and another, and it seemed as if the white Knight of Nottingham would surely defeat this force alone.

  And then, he fell from his horse. Rhys did not see how it was done, and a moment later the white horse also fell to enemy swords, whinnying and screaming. Standing over Sir Owen was a warrior; by his fine black and deep green armor, it was clear that he was the master of this army. He carried a spear with twin blades, and his eyes were bloody murder. He looked at Rhys, inviting the charge. The end of his spear plunged downwards, and Owen’s armor split asunder. The knight moved slightly against the weight, and then was still.

  “I am Erandur, King of the Dark Elves,” the warrior said in a voice of poison and nightmares. “I bring death for you, Rhys of Gascogne.”

  “I am Sir Rhys, Son of the Round Table. I come to avenge Sir Owen, to avenge Sir Henry and Sir Derrick. Prepare yourself!” Rhys shouted the last as he spurred Broderick into a charge.

  The battle swam around Rhys and Erandur as they dueled. There was no doubt that the Drow-King was a warrior unlike any other; his spear not only kept Rhys at bay atop his horse, but darted out like a snake to strike down any foot soldier foolish enough to get too close. A streaking blow toppled Rhys from Broderick’s back, but he landed somehow on his knees and managed to raise his burnished shield in time to fend off a strike that would have disemboweled him. The spear clanged again off his shield, and then Erandur reversed his grip and sent the other end of the spear flying to Rhys’ right. Rhys parried and stepped closer. Erandur was still out of reach of his long sword, but so long as Rhys had his shield-strength, it was an impasse.

  He heard words that made no sense shouted from behind him. “Mordred’s banner! Alarum! Awake, Sons of Camelot!”

  It sounded like Richard, or it could have been Gawain. He could not look away from his opponent, who slew a yeoman trying to take him unawares from behind. Erandur didn’t even need to look around to know where the man was, and with a swipe of the bladed haft he favored, the man’s head fell clear from his shoulders. This was Rhys’ chance, he realized. The spear was pointed away from him for the briefest moment, and he leapt forward, pinning the haft with his heavily armored right foot. The blade stuck in the turf underfoot, and with a bellowed roar of fatigue, revenge and hatred, he plunged his sword into Erandur’s chest. The Drow-King gaped uncomprehendingly. It had never occurred to him that this boy playing at being a knight might kill him. The Drow-King’s heart struck two more beats, and then it was still.

  “Revenge,” Rhys spat into the dying creature’s face, and pushed his body off his sword. It took a moment, so deeply was the dark elf run through. Broderick trotted closer to him, ignoring the fight for now. The battle had apparently shifted away from them. They were no longer at the center of the clashing armies and when Rhys clambered once again onto Broderick’s back, he saw why. As if from nowhere, Mordred had arrived in full force. As far as Rhys could see, from the shattered wall of Kendal to where the tree line swallowed the south road, there were black banners. Picts, Vikings, Celts, grim twisted goblin-men and dark elves, a host of many thousands was slowly swallowing the few hundreds of loyalist soldiers. The cries of dying men filled the air, and for a moment Rhys thought he could hear Naida’s voice, calling his name. Mordred himself was at the center of this new front, dueling Richard with shield and hammer. Richard fought well, but Mordred was the son of grave magic and the royal blood of the Pendragon line. He was a terrible foe. Richard of Dunmonia fell to the thunderclap of a hammer blow.

  “No!” cried Rhys, and spurred his horse on. Foamy spittle flecked Broderick’s mouth as the charger responded to his master’s wishes. They threw themselves again into the fray, knowing that all was lost. Rhys slew and slew, reveling in the murder, determined to sell his life as dearly as possible. Mordred loomed up on his own giant black horse, and their battle was brief. Rhys was too fatigued to face so great a foe as Mordred, resplendent and huge in dark armor and furs. A heavy blow cracked the dragon helm, and Rhys senselessly watched the world begin to fall away from him in slow motion. Another strike and he was unhorsed. Broderick reared and struck out with his foreleg, defending his master. Mordred’s armor rang with the horseshoe’s blow, and then Rhys found himself being dragged away from battle, bouncing and bumping over the charnel ground. His leg felt near to being ripped off, and he had to twist the remains of the dragon helm from his head so he could see. His foot lay trapped in the stirrup, yet when he felt for his sword he realized he had dropped it. Broderick barreled on, spooked by something although Rhys had never seen the horse display such behavior before.

  “Broderick, stop! Go back, we must go back!” Rhys cried, but it was no use. Behind them, the army of Mordred finally encircled the loyalist force, and swallowed it. Broderick ran on, heedless to the cries of his master.

  Chapter Seven

  Kendal, Cumbria, England

  The screams of dying men finally petered out, and Mordred could finally relax a little.

  The battle had been short, and a bit frustrating, apart from the slaying of the young knight. Of all his opponents that day, only he had been worthy. It had almost been a shame to kill him. Later, he had discovered that his name had been Sir Richard of Dumnonia. The name was meaningless to him. The knight who had charged him on the blown horse and with no strength left but fury still puzzled him. His body was yet to be found, but he surely could not have gotten too far. What a fool he was. Mordred could only pray for a serious opponent further south.

  “Sire, we have counted the bodies,” a sergeant at arms said at his elbow.

  Mordred had quite forgotten himself, eyes closed, on the back of his mount. He opened his eyes and looked down at the sergeant. The man was bleeding from several light wounds, and one eye was bruised half-shut underneath his cheap iron half helm. No matter, there would be plenty of better equipment to be taken from the dead. “Yes, O’Donnell. How did we fare?” Mordred said. The key aspect about a long campaign w
as to keep your own army fit and ready to fight, while keeping casualties to a minimum. The Celts, Picts and Vikings, while not being entirely expendable, were warriors to be let loose rather than ordered into pitched battle. His personal guard and company of men-at-arms, known as the Company of the King, were limited in number but highly trained. Those he would need at his side, aid from the Arcadian Lord, Oberon, or nay. The sergeant cleared his throat and read from a tattered parchment.

  “The Pictland clans, two hundred and fifty dead, one hundred maimed. The Company of the King, three and eighty dead, twelve maimed. The Celtic clans, four and ninety dead, twenty maimed. Ragnar Lodbrok’s Vikings, thirty dead, no maimed.” That was typical of the Vikings, never ones to allow a mere maiming to get in the way of a glorious death. O’Donnell went on, “Sven Bossig’s Vikings, eight and eighty dead, no maimed. They were the Vikings, my lord, which Erandur sent out to attract the Camelot force closer to the walls of Kendal. None survived.”

  Mordred looked down on the sergeant with a displeased countenance that encouraged the man to continue. Sometimes, men had to be sacrificed for the larger victory.

  “Finally, Sire, The Nineteenth Covenant of The Dark Elves lost fifty, and thirteen maimed. Included among the dead is the elvish king, Erandur himself. Reports say that he was slain by the Dragon Knight in single combat.” The sergeant’s voice dropped to a near whisper. The battle prowess of Erandur was legendary, and although the sergeant could only guess as to the existence of Arcadia, he had seen the dark elf king in combat.

  “The Dragon Knight, you say? No wonder the whelp was so tired when I crushed his helm with my hammer!” Mordred laughed, and the hint of madness in it poured ice down O’Donnell’s back.

  “How did our foes fare, O’Donnell?” Mordred inquired.