The Knight

by Kim Dragoner

  Rhys looked, uncomprehending. “What has an orchard to do with the war against Mordred? Apples against swords; this is a bad jest, wizard.” This was the wrong choice of words, Rhys knew, and the wizard had a graveled voice when he replied. He took several heartbeats to speak, and Rhys felt chastened as if by his own grandfather.

  “Mordred is a pawn in a battle for dominance between powers he has little understanding of. He has accepted the aid of Arcadia, who for long has been under covenant with Queen Mab of Eon not to interfere with events in our realm, as they would once do. Though they broke their oath, their lord Oberon has grown too strong to be shackled as he once was. Oberon sees in Mordred a way to clear the land of all those who would aid Eon in the real war to come.” Merlin paced as he spoke, reminding Rhys of every one of his tutors from when he was a boy. “Once Mordred has the throne, there will be passages between Arcadia and England about the land. The denizens of that fell reality will feast on the blood, the pain and torture of every innocent man and woman you have ever known, and many more besides. And then, oh then, I fear for all. The power they will then possess, why, they could invade Eon itself, sink Avalon beneath the waves, bring heaven itself crashing down. Oberon means to become a god, and with his agent Mordred doing his bidding in this madness, it is likely he will succeed. Unless you, Rhys, son of Gwallawc, stop him.” Merlin ceased his pacing, and turned to look at the young knight.

  Rhys looked up, his green eyes meeting the gray. His hair was still matted with blood and sweat, and hung limply and plastered to his face in parts. He felt far from the hero required to save not just his homeland, but reality itself. “And to prevent this evil, I have to find an orchard?” Rhys said. He felt stupid beyond words that he was unable to catch on to Merlin’s words.

  “This is a fae legend, involving their Lifetree and the reincarnation of a hero who must heal it. I must confess, though I am learned in the arts of magic and the history of many worlds, I lack the poetry to do the tale of Nestaron justice. Perhaps the words would be taken to your heart, if they came from the lips of another?”

  Merlin clutched up his staff without waiting for answer, and thrust it to the sky in a storm of lightning and rainbows that scared Broderick near close to rout. There was no noise, no thunderclap to accompany the dizzying pyrotechnics; instead the lightning was caught by Merlin’s outstretched hand and shaped with deft and mysterious gestures into a many stranded ball, which grew and pulsed as he set it down on the ground. As if from very far away, Rhys heard a beautiful voice, the likes of which he had never heard before. The owner was clearly female and possessed of such heart breaking song he felt he would weep:

  “Eternal Branch, come back to us,

  Nestaron calls, the last of us

  Rinnah we beseech thee, give up your duty

  Our need is great, O Titan’s favor

  The Dragon must be born from the womb of mankind

  Faelight must illuminate his heart, guide his mind

  His teeth are death, it is all he knows

  His breath must be life

  Or Galasriniel, Poor Galasriniel

  Dies with all her kind.”

  The song ended, and Rhys found his eyes were closed, and fresh tears moistened his cheek. He knew now exactly what he must do; somehow the song had written his path across his heart. To his shame, he was afraid to take on such responsibility alone.

  “My love, you are not alone.”

  Though he had not spoken his thoughts, Rhys heard them answered by a voice he never thought to hear again. He opened his eyes, and where the woven ball of lightning had been, there stood Naida, beautiful and real, violet eyed and fair of face. She smiled, and Rhys felt gladness in his soul that he did not have the words to express.

  Merlin, however, was gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Gaul, Western Empire of Rome

  Across the narrow, turbulent waters that separate England from Gaul, in the ruins of what once was the most western outpost of the 19th Legion of Rome, Merlin appeared once again.

  So used to the comings and goings of the old sage were the Knights of the Round Table that none of them were even remotely unsettled by it any more. One moment there was an empty chair set next to that occupied by King Arthur, and the next there was Merlin, sitting in it as if he had been there all along. Around the large and portable replica of the original round table sat the knights in counsel with their liege.

  Sir Lancelot du Lake sat there, with his son, the perfect knight Sir Galahad, who, after braving the Siege Perilous, would soon depart to seek the Grail. Arthur’s cousin, Sir Cador too there sat, long gray beard slowly turning to white. Sir Tristan, the great archer, drank from a golden goblet he had found bearing inscriptions from olden Greece and brave Sir Lamorak, quick to anger and great of strength. Sir Sagramor, Sir Tom a’Lincoln and Sir Bors the Younger rounded out the mighty council. For a year they had fought against Roman, Gaul and Visigoth, protecting England from invasion and strife during the golden era of Arthur’s court.

  “Welcome, Merlin, thrice hail!” said King Arthur, though he spoke the words without his usual good humor. Even so far from home as they were, and regularly beset by battles of their own, it had not escaped the king that Mordred was poised to undo all the long reigning peace and stability that the Knights of Camelot had endeavored to create. Nobility and peace, a just land, all threatened with the torch.

  “Greetings, King Arthur. Greetings, good knights,” Merlin said, and the knights turned to give their mentor their attention. “The Sons of The Round Table are defeated,” Merlin said, and there were groans of dismay from the knights. “Though in truth, there was nothing those brave boys could have done. Betrayal most foul has been wrought, and the agents of Arcadia are abroad throughout the land.”

  “Then we must ride to Camelot and meet them in battle!” cried Lancelot, standing and drawing his sword.

  “Aye! Mordred will pay for the deaths of our kinsmen, though I met them not,” said Tom a’Lincoln.

  “My honor on it, this traitor will feel my sword!” bellowed Sir Bors. One by one, the knights stood and drew their swords. The eight mighty Knights of the Round Table gleamed like gods made flesh in the open air. They raised their weapons and swore an oath of vengeance, and it was terrible indeed to witness the wrath of these warriors, each man an army, together invincible.

  “Peace, my brothers,” said King Arthur, getting to his feet as well. The beauty of his golden armor was only rivaled by the sternness of his face. Never before or since had there been a king of such kindness, honor and bravery. Though all were equal at the Round Table, all knew that Arthur was made king for a reason, touched by the hand of God Himself and anointed so as well.

  “We shall ride to Camelot, and give up these lands to which we have brought peace and justice, though it pains me to do so. Yea, but by the hour of our arrival, I fear that Mordred will already have taken the castle, if he for truth is aided by the forces of Arcadia,” Arthur looked to Merlin, and the wizard gave a shallow nod.

  “Arcadia?” said Sir Galahad. “From whence do these men hail? I know the country not.”

  “Arcadia is no land, Galahad,” replied Arthur Pendragon. “Arcadia is no place to where we mortals might sail. I have forged our kingdom into a place of peace, of reason and rational wisdom. But my friends, there are other worlds than this one. Worlds where magic reigns and fear and dismay are held up as ideals just as strongly as we hold our own good ones.”

  There was murmuring among the knights. Some of them had encountered many fantastical things on their mighty quests, but to hear their king speaking of what no doubt was one of his closest kept secrets—even from them—was disquieting. Arthur continued. “There is good and evil beyond the borders of this world, and to shield our people to whom we must ultimately hold ourselves accountable, I have restricted knowledge of both. Though you may find the signs of these worlds existing in our own, the songs of minstrels or the herb craft of the hedge witches; we have
succeeded, Merlin and I, in restricting their influence. One of these worlds is known as Eon, and is the source of all the mythical stories of little people, faefolk and magic. The other is Arcadia; ruled by Oberon, peopled by fell creatures, black-hearted elves and the undead. It is to them whom Mordred has sold his soul. It is the creatures of our nightmares who take up arms against us. I cannot ask you to face these monsters with me, though I will face them alone if I must.” Arthur drew his sword, and Excalibur gleamed. All who looked at this magical weapon felt sure that no man, no elf, no demon or devil could ever topple the bearer.

  The knights arrayed before him as one and cried, “For King Arthur and Camelot! Victory or death!” When the clamor had died down, wise Sir Cador spoke.

  “We are with you, my king. Unto the fires of hell itself. But the question remains: we are weeks away from Camelot, where Mordred must be mere days. Before we return, Camelot will have fallen to devilry, and will be fortified against us. You made Camelot to be impregnable to assault, and it would be an ill jest if we lose our home to magic and then cannot retake it. I fear we are in for a long campaign of attrition. We take back all of fair England, and then starve Mordred out, yes?”

  Merlin stood and answered, and he did not apologize for speaking in the king’s stead. “I believe I have a solution, though not one of you may like it. You have witnessed how I move freely from place to place, but I have never shown you how. To take all of you will take more skill than I possess, and great bravery on your part. If you are willing, we shall walk beyond death, beyond heaven, and through the back doors of the many worlds.”

  Lancelot stroked his chin, stark and handsome he was as he said, “Tell us plainly, friend Merlin Graycloak; you speak in riddles. You say to take this path wants more strength than you have, so how do you propose to put it into effect?”

  Merlin did not answer, but turned and faced the ruined wall of the stone fort behind where he sat. From where the knights were standing, they saw his staff move in a strange pattern, then the old wizard began to spin it, hand over hand in front of him. Faster and faster the wooden staff moved, until it seemed a blur, too fast for any mortal man to see or enact; but as they had seen time and time again thrice over, Merlin was no mere man. He was a wizard, The Wizard, the greatest of his age and the last that would ever be seen in this world. The wooden staff began to glow, an iridescent purple light began to form about him, which grew in brilliance until no man could stand to look at it, save King Arthur himself, who stared unflinchingly at it. There was a tearing sound, and the ruined rock wall of the fort seemed to fall in on itself, eaten and disappearing into nothing as if an invisible animal was taking great bites. Merlin was chanting, louder and louder in a language none had the knowledge to understand, until there was a final great crack, and the wizard and his staff became still.

  The light faded, and the knights could see the wonders Merlin had wrought. In the place of the wall lay a great oval opening of violet, large enough for two horses to ride abreast through it, though to where it led, none could say. There was a speck of light moving toward them from within this portal, though when Sir Bors examined it from the side, there was no tunnel leading away; it was simply as a coin, flipped in the air and held there by air alone. The speck grew larger, and eventually, sharp-eyed Sir Sagramor could hold his tongue no longer. “Sooth! It is a chariot, unless I am deceived!”

  “Aye,” said Merlin, and the shape resolved itself in the sight of the rest of the knights. It was a chariot unlike any on earth; for it was not of this earth at all. Drawn by winged horses and fashioned from the ivory gifted by a thousand dying unicorns, Titania rode into the realm of men for the first time in an age. A terrible and beautiful sight she was; wrapped in thin silks and bronzed armor of battle, she bore a great bow with which she had struck down a hundred times a hundred foes. Driving the chariot was a beautiful girl, although she was no girl by the blue of her hair and butterfly wings on her back. Another lass of similar countenance stood with her mistress, bearing a long spear. The chariot stopped without needing to slow down, and rotated within the portal to face the direction from whence it had come.

  The mistress of the chariot herself spun on her heel to face the knights, and favored Arthur with her gaze. “Noble Arthur of the Mortal Realm,” her twinkling voice sang, “in your darkest hour, I, Titania of the Storm, have come to give you much-needed assistance. My fair maids here present are Vanya and Thenidiel, of the same. I bring you fair blessing and good favor from Queen Mab of the Seelie Court, who bears a great burden allowing me to manifest to you. Will you ride with us? Against Oberon, and the death of all?”

  Arthur nodded gravely. “Aye, we will ride to battle with the fae. Will ye ride with us, against Mordred and the doom of England?”

  Titania smiled, and bowed low. “My king, I propose an accord. The humans are yours; leave the elves and goblins to us.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cumbria, England

  Since the first day they had met at the Everlasting Pool, Naida had dreamed of this day.

  Despite the fell times, and the prospect of ruin for everything she knew, to have Rhys in her arms was almost worth it. They had lain for some time together, staring into each other’s eyes, violet meeting green. “Rhys, you are a grown man now, I believe,” she joked with him, stroking the dark hair growing on his throat. “I fear that I haven’t changed, not one bit, so sad that I am not mortal like you, my love.”

  Rhys took her hand, and standing up he pulled her to her feet. He was so tall that when he pulled her close, her head fell neatly on his well-muscled chest. “I fear that you tell a lie, Naida, though you know it not. Your tale of the fate of Minerva and her sacrifice would change any being, faery or mortal. I see it in you now, the pain you bear. And now we must put an end to this. Take me to Rinnah, so that I may do what needs be done.”

  Naida looked up at her destined love with fresh tears in her eyes, and confusion set upon her. “But Rhys, I know not where she is! I swear, I had looked from one end of the land to the other, every copse of trees I have looked o’er, and naught!” She felt her lip tremble at the realization that she had failed Minerva, which had cost her friend her life, and now also failed Rhys, the Nestaron, or so she had believed. He could not become the Nestaron, The Dragon Prince of prophecy, without defeating Rinnah in her challenge. Finding Rinnah had been her job. Naida fell to her knees, but Rhys caught her and pulled her up. Her knees were weak, but he carried her weight easily.

  “Nay, my lady. Soft now. You know where Rinnah is, but you could not find her with your heart seeking me instead. Now, you have me, always. Whether we die this day or a thousand years from now, I pledge myself to thee.” Rhys lay a kiss on her lips, and the fire of her magical love flowed in Naida’s veins. She pulled away, confused.

  “How can you know this?” she whispered, looking up into Rhys’ face. His eyes burned with a strange intensity that she had not seen before, and he felt strong, even dangerous now with his determination.

  “I… don’t know, Naida. It feels like a dream, or a memory of something that I don’t recall ever having experienced. Does that make sense?”

  Being faekind, it made perfect sense to Naida; there could be only one answer. “Queen Mab has sent you muses, shaping your dreams to show you your path. Woe that I cannot hear the same whispers. Mab, Queen of Eon, show me what I must do!”

  Rhys laughed. “When I don’t know where I am going, I either let Broderick decide, or trust my instinct. Where would you think Rinnah would hide? Your people are fond of poetics and myths; I mean you, practically are myths.”

  Naida considered for a moment. She knew! Of course she knew. The only possible location for the Eternal Branch would have to be at the poetically appropriate place; it was so obvious!

  “Take my hand, Rhys. I’m taking you to Rinnah.” Rhys took her hand as he was bid, and in a moment of concentration, they were flying through the places between worlds, wrapped in the magic protection of des
tiny and Queen Mab’s intent. It felt to Rhys like hours, years, no time at all and eternity all at once, like a dream within a dream. When they landed, it was hard and sent him tumbling to the ground once more.

  Naida turned about, trying to make sure that she had brought them both to the right place. The trees of this grove of apple trees was perfectly tended, heavy fruit grew on their branches. They were in a great courtyard; high towers and battlements surrounded them with pennants flying proudly.

  “Naida,” said Rhys as he got to his feet, “you did it! This is the place, I am sure of it, but… is this Camelot?”

  “Of course,” Naida said. “When you reminded me of myths, I felt it was the only right answer. After all, are we not in a myth ourselves?” She laughed gaily.

  “Myths usually have monsters-sss, my dear,” hissed an all-too familiar voice. Anebos the cambion slithered out of the shadow of the largest apple tree. Rhys nocked an arrow and drew his bow to his eye.

  “What obscenity are you, foul creature?” he demanded.

  Naida answered him. “This is Anebos; he is the wraith that slew Minerva! I will take my revenge upon him!”

  Without another word, Naida drew on the power granted to her by Mab and threw a thousand blades of air at the undead thing. The assault would have cut a mortal man to ribbons, but the cambion laughed a hissing giggle at her. Rhys loosed his arrow, and the shaft struck true, through where the heart of the creature should be. Anebos placed a hand on the shaft skewering his body, and it turned to dust at his touch.

  “You will have to do better than that, my child!” Anebos whimpered, and the air in front of him ignited into a torrent of flame that Naida turned into a cloud of wasps before it could incinerate Rhys.