Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2)

by Adam Copeland

  “Aye,” Patrick said, “judging from the footprint alone, the A-frame is going to stand almost as tall as our castle walls—nine, ten horses tall.”

  Waylan whistled, adding, “No wonder they haven’t been attacking us. They must have every man working on it.”

  Onlookers crowded the Greensprings walls. Word had gone out that the Lost Boy camp worked on something massive. The spectators jostled to get a view of what disturbed the Avangarde so much.

  “What is it?” Lady Katherina asked, wrinkling her nose at the pile of lumber with a multitude of men crawling over it with hammers, saws, ropes, and pulleys. “It doesn’t look like much to me.”

  Patrick recalled that night in Philip’s tent. The secret of what Philip hid underneath the tarp was now clear. He hadn’t just been carving chess pieces, but most likely had been building a working model of this contraption.

  “It will, Lass, it will,” Corbin said with an air of trepidation. “It’s called a trebuchet. It will make those catapults look like a child’s slingshot. Patrick’s right—if they build it to proportion with the frame they’ve already set in the ground, it’s going to be the largest siege engine I’ve ever seen. They can fire horse-sized rocks at us from their camp, and there won’t be a blessed thing we can do about it. Teodorico wasn’t lying when he said he planned on leveling Greensprings.”

  “There’s plenty we can do,” Sir Brian said. “We can set it on fire.”

  Corbin nodded. “We’re going to have to if we want to survive.”

  “Aye, and sooner rather than later,” Patrick added, “judging by the progress they’ve made so far. It could be operational within a couple days. Maybe even tomorrow, if those other frames lying in the grass just need to be lifted into place. I see they’ve already fashioned their water wheels.”

  “Oh damn,” Corbin said, scrutinizing the construction again. “Is that what those giant barrels are to the left?”

  “Water wheels?” Katherina asked.

  “Circles of wood, like barrels without lids, that are attached to the sides when the engine is finished,” Patrick explained. “Men stand inside them and walk, turning the circles, like a water wheel at a grist mill. They spool rope, like a winch, raising the counterweight.”

  “Not all trebuchets use them,” Corbin added, “but when they do, they’re damn fast and can load and launch every ten minutes. Much faster than teams of men or oxen pulling on rope. Teodorico is wasting no time.”

  “All the more reason we need to do something now,” Brian urged.

  “I wish Wolfgang and Marcus knew of this,” Sir Waylan said. “This changes everything. Before, we had half a chance of holding out. Now we’re really running out of time. If they knew, I’m sure they’d redouble their efforts to get help.”

  The knights grumbled, speculated, and strategized. Patrick noticed Jon and Katherina exchanging whispers. Whatever they discussed did not seem to make Katherina happy and before long Jon broke away and approached Patrick.

  “We should send word to Wolfgang and Marcus. If we send someone with a horse to the mainland, they can cross the Cornish peninsula and reach Glastonbury about the same time as the Avangarde arrive with their Guests.”

  Patrick nodded. “Not a bad idea if we could sneak a few men and horses to the Aesclinn docks.”

  “If we attack the trebuchet, that would make a wonderful diversion for someone to do just that.” Jon grinned. “Two birds with one stone.”

  “Very well. Suggest it to Corbin; he’ll pick someone to take the mission.”

  “He’d be more likely to go along with it if he heard it from you—and more likely to choose me if you suggested I am the one to go.”

  Patrick’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Jon elbowed him and gestured with his eyes to Corbin. Katherina gave a pleading look to Patrick and gave a quick shake of her head.

  “Jon, just say it. You don’t need me to speak for you,” Patrick finally said, avoiding Katherina’s uncomfortable stare. “I’ll support you.”

  “I don’t want you to support me,” Jon said angrily, stepping between him and Katherina with his back to her. “I want you to champion me. I want you to insist I be the messenger. Even if Corbin agrees to the plan, you know he won’t choose me, unless you make the recommendation.”

  “Jon...”

  “Don’t ‘Jon’ me,” his anger escalated. “I fought side-by-side with you against the goblins. I stood by you when you were looked upon as unfit for duty. You always got the girl. You’ve had your turn, Knight of Cups, now it’s mine!”

  “Gentlemen?” Corbin said, looking at the pair.

  Patrick paused, his jaw muscle working back and forth as he ground his teeth.

  “Jon has an idea,” he said at last. “Waylan’s right—we need to get word to the outside that things have changed here. Jon feels he can reach the Aesclinn harbor while we attack the trebuchet, distracting the enemy from him. He can make it to the mainland, ride cross-country to Glastonbury, and deliver a plea for faster help.”

  “Jon?” Corbin said, perhaps a bit more skeptically than he intended.

  “Aye, it was his idea,” Patrick pointed out, “he should be the one to go. He’s capable and eager.”

  Corbin pursed his lips and looked between Sir Jon and Sir Patrick. “It’s not the craziest plan I’ve heard lately, and it just might prove helpful.”

  With that, the knights gathered around to form their strategy.

  Before joining the circle, Jon turned to Patrick and whispered, “Thank you, my friend.”

  “You’re welcome, Jon,” Patrick replied, and smiled wanly despite a sinking feeling in his gut. Katherina hung her head and stalked away.

  #

  When they had collected enough bladders of oil and torches for the attack, the knights marshaled in the courtyard. They huddled about braziers in the chill evening air in small groups, waiting for the right moment.

  “This will be our first real combat,” Jakob said to Patrick, holding his hands out to the flames. “Any advice?”

  Patrick took his time answering. He struggled to put on an air of strength and attentiveness to the lads with whom he shared the fire, but other concerns weighed on him. Aimeé’s bleeding had slowed, but had not stopped. Emilie had been sought to apply her healing gift, but the child now lay in her own sickbed, exhausted.

  Sadness attempted to engulf him as he pictured his mother holding his baby for the first time, only to have it fade from her arms. Anger replaced the sadness, and Jakob’s question focused him.

  “Rely on your training.” Patrick blew into his hands and wrapped his cape about him closer. “Keep a level head. I’m sure Sir Lucan is an excellent knight and must have been a good teacher. Therefore, do as he would command. Obey the horn signals we discussed, and all should go as planned. Speaking of Sir Lucan, where is he?”

  “Praying before the cup,” Jakob said.

  Patrick recalled the rumors of how Lucan frequently prayed before the cup, showing an extraordinary passion when he did—so much that it disturbed the pilgrims, forcing them to leave the church. Before he could wonder again why Lucan felt so strongly, Josef spoke up.

  “I think Jakob meant if you have any advice on preparing ourselves for death.”

  “Say your prayers, make your confessions, and make your world right with God,” Patrick said, for there was little else to say. “Do those things, and fear and death have no power over you. The battle is in God’s hands. It is a fine line between assuming you are already dead the moment you draw your sword, and maintaining hope you will accomplish your mission and make it out alive. To walk that line between recklessness and fearlessness is a difficult thing, and only comes with experience.”

  “I prefer to think God is with me, that the glass is half-full, not half-empty,” Jon added. He shifted from one foot to the other, either to stay warm or to burn nervous energy. Probably both. “And He will protect me. If He doesn’t, then it is as Patrick says—meant to be. I won�
��t worry about it until then. Besides, my mother always said heaven is our real home, where we belong. Dying is merely going home.”

  Patrick smiled and shrugged. “To each his own. There is no right way to face death, and you lads will have to choose your own.”

  “If what happens to us is entirely up to God,” Josef said, brow furrowed deep in thought, “does that not then make us merely chess pieces with no say in the game?”

  “We’re chess pieces with free will,” Patrick pointed out. “How we perform in the next square to which God moves us is entirely up to us. Do we perform admirably, or shamefully? Were we prepared, or unprepared? Did we inspire the other pieces to perform well when their turn came to move to their next square?”

  “Still a pawn,” Jakob grumbled.

  “Well, perhaps we have some say in what square we land in, or how,” Patrick amended, “but there is still only one direction to move—the direction God has sent us—and that is forward.”

  He paused, contemplating. Giving answers to a puzzle he hadn’t quite sorted out himself didn’t come easy, but he felt it important to try.

  “Protecting this cup, this true relic of Jesus, from liars and pretenders,” Jakob said, “that is something worth dying for. I’m happy for the opportunity.”

  “As I am,” Josef agreed. Questions still played across his face. “Though I don’t want to challenge God’s reasons, I am curious as to why the cup needs protecting at all. Why doesn’t God just snap his fingers and make it disappear—take it someplace safe?”

  “I think you just answered your own question,” Jon replied, staring solemnly into the fire. “The occasion offers us an opportunity to stand up for something. To believe in something. Pity the soul who has never had his faith tested, for how can he possibly know how strong it is until it has?” Jon continued to stare at the coals in the brazier, his eyes both vacant and thoughtful. “God has done so much for us, sent His son to die for us. Perhaps it is our turn to fight for Him. Maybe He needs us just as much as we need Him. Maybe He needs us to fight for the cup, just as he needed Noah to build the ark. Perhaps when this is done He will provide us with our own rainbow, our own promise.”

  Patrick’s jaw dropped as he stared at Jon, never realizing the depths of his friend’s poetic heart. Suddenly the time Katherina spent with Jon didn’t seem so strange. Also, Jon may have just explained things better than the damnably enigmatic Other.

  Activity grabbed their attention as Corbin and several others made their way through the groups of knights and braziers. Torches flared to life among the knights, spreading like the dawn’s aurora.

  “It’s almost time,” Corbin announced. “Head for the stables and mount up, but first we have some business to attend to.” He stepped towards Jon, and Waylan handed a bundle of dark cloth to Corbin who in turn handed it to Jon. Jon shook it out. The dark cloth lengthened out to a surcoat and the white swan emblem shone brightly in the darkness.

  “Congratulations, Jon. It’s been a long time coming and you’ve earned it.”

  Cheers went up and all crowded around Jon to slap him on the back.

  His smile lit up the courtyard.

  #

  Two hundred knights gathered in front of the main gate, as agitated as their horses. They awaited the inner and outer portals to open.

  To increase the element of surprise, a group of men worked the winches slowly, and another group greased the gears and chains to minimize their squeak and rattle.

  Sir Josef fidgeted more than most in his saddle.

  “Nervous, Lad?” Patrick asked.

  Josef looked about, then leaned towards the Irishman. He whispered, “I have to piss... bad.”

  Patrick chuckled, and couldn’t help but feel the newly made knight looked like a twelve-year-old boy in armor.

  “Let your water run in the saddle. I’m certain you won’t be the only one.”

  Josef nodded, let his shoulders droop, and moaned in relief.

  Patrick shook his head, smiling.

  Eventually the signal came to prepare to sortie.

  With a silence-shattering clatter, the gates fell open and the knights thundered over the drawbridge. With the element of surprise gone, the knights shouted their battle cries and charged the trebuchet.

  Within moments, an alarm horn blared in the enemy camp, and by the time the Avangarde reached the camp, they met a hasty, unprepared resistance. The lead knights carried no torches or oil bladders so they could concentrate their efforts on plowing a path with lance and sword for those who did. They accomplished this easily enough as they trampled, lanced, and cut down half-dressed and sleepy Lost Boys stumbling from their tents. They swept through the camp like a deadly wind, hurling toward the trebuchet frames silhouetted against the night sky.

  When they reached them, two things struck Patrick as significant: one, that the monstrosity’s sheer size could only truly be appreciated when you stood next to it, and two, the surprising lack of defenses around the engine.

  Also, the thing was nearer completion than they had guessed.

  “Something is wrong,” Patrick called to Corbin as he tossed aside his shattered lance, the tip of which was still embedded in some unlucky soul’s breast. “Philip would post at least a company of soldiers to guard his investment.”

  “Let’s just count our blessings, get the job done, and be gone.” Corbin commanded the bladders broken against the wood and the torches cast.

  Men and horses wheeled about, their breath coming out in misty puffs in the cool air. Patrick hung his shield in his harness, stood in the saddle and jumped to the chest-high base of the trebuchet. The smell of freshly milled oak filled his nostrils as he drew his sword and approached the engine’s central, long launch-trench. He raised his sword to cut the launch cable of the throwing arm, but paused and cursed loudly.

  “What’s wrong?” Corbin asked.

  “The launch cable, it’s not rope,” Patrick replied. “It’s chain.”

  Corbin also cursed, but for another reason. “The fires aren’t taking. It’s not burning fast enough.”

  Patrick approached the A-frame and put his nose up to the wood as thick as an entire ancient oak tree. Not only did it smell of freshly cut wood, but also incredibly moist.

  “They soaked it with water!” Patrick cursed.

  A roar of shouts came from the tree line of the forest and a small army of foot soldiers descended upon them. With the sound of clashing steel, they engaged.

  Corbin cursed and commanded the retreat horn sounded.

  As the horn blared, Patrick jumped into Siegfried’s saddle and fitted his shield to his arm just in time to fend off a sword. The blow still managed to knock him from the saddle. Cursing, he rolled to his feet and prepared to meet his attacker. The sound of combat pressed around him.

  A dark shape lunged at him, and they joined in a deadly dance to the tune of metal and shouts. His opponent was skilled enough to shatter Patrick’s shield in short order. Patrick shook off the shards, gripped his sword hilt two-handed, and then windmilled ahead. While his adversary struggled to fend off his blows, Patrick rotated to a backward grip, spun, and thrust the blade behind him.

  His attacker froze, impaled on Patrick’s blade, then fell gurgling.

  Through the thickening smoke, Corbin rode up with Siegfried in tow and tossed the reins to Patrick.

  “We’ve run this bunch off,” he said, “but two thousand more are on their way. We need to go. Are you wounded?”

  “Just my pride,” Patrick replied, climbing into the saddle. “I can’t believe I let my guard down.”

  “Well, then you’re doing better than this fellow.” Corbin pointed with his chin.

  Patrick looked down, and in the sputtering firelight and smoke, the Lost Boy Jean-Jean stared back at him with vacant eyes.

  #

  They rode back into Greensprings under halfhearted pursuit by the enemy. They made no shouts of joy or triumph.

  Once inside, stable hands
took their horses and monks attended the dead. They had only lost six Avangarde, but within an order as small as theirs, any death was a tragedy. Patrick felt relieved he did not know any of them very well, but also regretted he hadn’t made more of an effort to know them while they lived. Whether they were Corbin’s friends, the knight did not show. He cut the notches in his gauntlet and turned away. Patrick noted a slight tremor in his hands.

  After inspecting Siegfried for wounds, Patrick turned him over to the stablehands and found Jakob and Josef. Both were wide-eyed and flushed.

  “Are you well?” he asked them.

  Jakob nodded. “That was both frightening and exhilarating.”

  Josef plucked at something splashed across his forehead. He held up the squishy white substance and made a face.

  “Looks like a bit of someone’s brains,” Patrick said.

  Josef’s eyes crossed and he fell unconscious backwards. Jakob caught him.

  Patrick approached Corbin who now stood with fists on hips, staring at the walls as if his eyes could penetrate them.

  “We have to do something,” he said, chewing his lower lip, “though I have no idea what. They’ll be even better prepared next time.”

  “We’ll think of something,” Patrick assured, “and I’m told Jon made it through, so there is hope.”

  #

  Lucan cringed at the sound he had dreaded to hear, but knew it would come eventually. A “thud” hit the roof of his chamber, followed by skittering noises across the ceiling. He approached his window, cast open the wood shutters, and returned to the center of his room with his back to the window. Wind washed over him, ruffling his hair.

  “It’s time,” Lilliana said.

  Lucan turned to face her. Aside from tousled hair, she made the picture of a noblewoman in maroon velvet gown. She held a long box of polished wood, no longer than her forearm.

  “It is there?” Lucan said, eyeing the box suspiciously.

  She set it on a table and took a quick step away as if glad to be free of it. “I told you so.”

  Still frowning with skepticism he picked up the box and undid the simple latch. When he opened it, his eyes widened at the contents.