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

by Adam Copeland

  “Very well. We’ll see you at the tent soon.”

  Corbin nodded and turned to leave. Philip and his men did likewise. Patrick stood his ground, his gaze snapping back and forth between the two departing groups. Even now he held out hope for an explanation. For the bite of the jest to reveal itself. When none came, he exploded.

  “No!” he cried, removing his helmet and throwing it at Philip as hard as he could. The helmet bounced off the back of Philip’s helmet with the sound of a bell tolling with a broken clapper.

  “Patrick!” Corbin warned.

  Philip froze in place and his men’s eyes widened at the brazen attack, but after clenching and unclenching his hands a few times, Philip continued on his way.

  “Damn you, Philip!” Patrick shouted at him. “And damn you, Corbin!”

  “Go home, Patrick. Be a good little dog and do what you’re told,” Philip called over his shoulder.

  “You’re worse than a dog! You’re a murderous, lying, filthy piece of shit! And Brutus is going to be just like you!”

  Philip froze again, but this time his clenched fists did not release. Moisture glistened from underneath his visor, trailing along the right side of his nose.

  Within a heartbeat, he spun and hurled his own helmet at Patrick, making him duck. When he did, Philip closed the short distance between them, tackling Patrick to the ground. They rolled in a flurry of capes and flailing arms, screaming and striking at each other like a pair of fighting boys on a playground.

  The Avangarde looked amongst themselves as did the Lost Boys, then the groups looked at each other, shrugging nervously. The archers did not fire, nor did the horseman make a move. After many tense minutes, Patrick finally managed to get behind Philip. He wrapped his legs around Philip’s torso, hooked a finger in his mouth, and started to pull viciously. A muffled cry issued from Philip and he reached into his boot. When he pulled out a dagger, both Lost Boys and Avangarde dove on the pair and wrestled them apart.

  “That’s enough Patrick!” Corbin shouted. “We’re leaving now.”

  Patrick and Philip still fought to get at one another, cursing each other, but when sufficiently apart they turned on the soldiers who held them. Philip’s men, apparently more afraid of him, released the frothing man. He shot back towards Patrick as his fellow Avangarde dragged him away, but Corbin barred his path. They locked eyes.

  “Corbin,” Philip hissed, looking Corbin up and down with the most contemptuous of looks, “don’t fool yourself. There have been three men in this world who’ve ever frightened me, and you’re not one of them.” Jon de Lorraine tugged on Philip’s arm, urging him to leave. Philip shook him off, but left just the same.

  They deposited a furious Patrick on the cobblestones of Greensprings’s courtyard. Not too far away they also laid out Jon’s body. The gates closed.

  Patrick shot to his feet. “Corbin, how can you just give them the cup?”

  “Oh, I’m going to give them a cup all right, but I don’t plan on giving them the cup.”

  Patrick froze. “You mean...?”

  “Yes, Patrick, I lied to him.”

  A mixture of relief, confusion, and some embarrassment flooded him. “But, why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Because I needed Philip to believe me, and you’re a poor actor,” Corbin explained. His shoulders slouched and exhaustion shown on his face. “I think Philip knows you well enough to recognize when you’re truly angry. You did a fantastic job just being you. He is now convinced we mean to hand the cup over.”

  Patrick leaned over on his knees, emotional exhaustion taking its toll. “I’m sorry. I understand now you’ve bought us the time to reforge the spear.”

  “Yes, and I also have a better plan than throwing a suicide attack against the trebuchet,” Corbin added as Avangarde returned his weapons. “Did you notice that arrogant fool Teodorico set up his tent on the edge of the enemy camp?”

  Patrick nodded. “Yes, probably so he could have a nice view.”

  “Aye, and he’s now within charging distance of our gates,” Corbin continued, drawing his dagger. “We’re going to march right up to Teodorico with Lucan holding a cup from the kitchen in one hand, and the Spear of Destiny behind his back. We’re going to put that blade to Teodorico’s throat, hold him hostage, and make him tell the Lost Boys to pack up and leave.”

  “It just might work,” Patrick acknowledged.

  “It better, because we’re out of time,” Corbin said. “Speaking of which, I’m going to check on the progress of the spear.”

  He left and Patrick turned to have a moment with Jon, but froze. Katherina and Chansonne were among those gathered about his body. When Katherina saw him, she stood from stroking Jon’s muddy blond hair and slapped Patrick hard across the face.

  Surprised, but not really, Patrick put up his arms to defend himself. She threw more blows at him, red blossoming in her face. The blows quickly subsided to weak flailing and after a half-hearted but angry attempt to prevent him from holding her, she acquiesced and held him back, weeping.

  “All you had to do was say no,” she sobbed.

  “You’re right,” Patrick agreed, choking, “I should have told Jon no. It would have hurt him terribly and he would have hated me, but you’re right, he would still be alive.”

  “He was so proud,” Katherina whispered, “so proud.”

  They held each other for a while, then Patrick noticed Chansonne standing by with a concerned look.

  “Why are you here?” Patrick asked. “Word couldn’t have reached you about Jon already.”

  Katherina disentangled herself from his arms and wiped her eyes.

  “It’s Aimeé,” she said, regaining some of her composure. “She is not getting better. The bleeding has slowed, but won’t stop. We thought you should know.”

  “What of Emilie?”

  “She is still exhausted from healing the wounded,” Katherina replied. “The men love her for it, but she is now bedridden herself. I’m worried about her.”

  Patrick threw back his head and gazed at the sky, wondering how this day could get any worse.

  As if to answer his questions, Corbin returned. “The spear is not ready,” he said angrily, “and probably won’t be for another couple hours.”

  “I don’t think they’ll wait on us,” Patrick lamented. “The trebuchet should be in its new position any moment now.”

  “I know,” Corbin agreed, punching a palm with his fist. “We can still proceed without the spear. The plan still might work.”

  Patrick sucked air between his teeth. “That is going to be difficult to pull off without the power of a relic, especially if Lilliana is there.”

  Corbin held out his hands. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  An unlikely one came from an equally unlikely source: in a small voice, Chansonne asked, “Would you like me to hurt the bad men?”

  #

  Lilliana poured herself a drink and took a seat on the litter under the canopy, foot tapping almost as impatiently as Teodorico’s fingers on the arm of his chair.

  “You believe him, hmm?”

  “I am familiar with Patrick’s hotheaded Irish rages,” Philip answered, rubbing his cheek, “and I can tell you he did not take the news lightly. Ja, Corbin will be marching over here with the cup with your man, Lucan.”

  “Lucan,” Teodorico sniffed derisively. “I cannot believe he got caught. At least he still managed to complete his mission, after a fashion, hmm?”

  Lilliana’s foot bobbing intensified. “This feels much too easy; something is wrong.” She took a deep drink, not looking at any of them.

  “You are too suspicious, my dear, hmm?” Teodorico said. “They merely see the futility of their situation. The fact they tried to bribe Sir Philip shows the extent of their desperation. Though I must admit, crushing them now will seem almost unfair.”

  Philip smiled. “I still will receive all the wealth of Greensprings?”

  “Of course, hmm?” Te
odorico said. “So long as you kill every occupant in the keep and leave no stone standing, hmm, yes?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I would advise against this,” Lilliana protested. “Something just doesn’t feel right. Continue with the original plan: destroy the walls first, attack, and then take Lucan or the girl and the cup.”

  Teodorico tsked. “And what? Run the risk of accidentally burying them underneath rubble? This is a fortuitous opportunity, hmm? Plus, there is no harm in entertaining their desperation, hmm? And I have enough men here to seize the messengers, and they can watch Philip’s trebuchet turn their home to dust.”

  Lilliana slammed her drink down, threw her scarf about her neck, and moved to leave.

  “Dearest, you don’t wish to watch, hmm?”

  “If they are indeed bringing the cup,” she replied over her shoulder, “I do not care to be here. The thing makes me uncomfortable.”

  She left, leaving Philip and Teodorico to plot their next move.

  #

  Teodorico’s restlessness escalated so much he poured himself a drink. When he had emptied the flagon’s contents, he shoved it into Victor’s hands, splashing the last of it on Victor’s robe. Agitation flashed across Victor’s normally smug countenance.

  “More,” Teodorico ordered.

  As Victor bowed and left, Teodorico walked to the far edge of the canopy to watch the progress of the trebuchet.

  “Are they not in position yet, hmm?”.

  “Almost, your Holiness,” Philip replied. His finger tapping on the pommel of his broadsword showed his only sign of impatience.

  “If the messengers do not come by the time the engine is in place, start launching anyway,” Teodorico commanded.

  “They come,” Philip said, gesturing with his chin towards Greensprings. “They’re on foot. I imagine by the time they arrive, we will launch the first missile.”

  “On foot?” Teodorico scowled, squinting in the direction of the keep. “What do you see? Tell me, young man with a young man’s eyes.”

  “I see Patrick and Corbin in the front,” Philip described. “There is a tall man in gray tunic behind them. I imagine that is Lucan—his hands are bound, but he carries a golden cup. Two more knights march behind him.”

  Teodorico raised an eyebrow thoughtfully as he took a drink. Lilliana was right. Something didn’t feel right.

  “Send men to intercept them,” he said.

  “Your Holiness?” Philip asked, raising his own eyebrow.

  “You heard me—do it.”

  Philip selected a handful of men from the twenty or so who surrounded the canopy, and ordered them across the grass toward the representatives from Greensprings.

  “What do you see?” Teodorico asked. “What do their faces say?”

  Philip shrugged. “They’re surprised, look none too happy about it, but still they come.”

  Teodorico drained the last of his wine and looked at the empty vessel with irritation. He looked for Victor, but his assistant hadn’t returned.

  Philip grunted a small gesture of surprise. “They brought the girl after all. They stepped aside and she came out from behind Lucan.”

  Teodorico trembled. “Tell your men to kill them! Now!”

  Philip frowned in confusion. “What on earth for? It’s just a child...”

  “Do it! Do it now! Kill them all!” Teodorico raged in a panic.

  But it was too late.

  #

  “Now,” Corbin said.

  He hadn’t wanted to trigger the plan so prematurely, but the five Lost Boys were marching towards them. There was no turning back. They stepped aside, crouched, squeezed their eyes shut, and covered their ears.

  The approaching Lost Boys only chuckled amongst themselves at the sight of the little girl in a white dress who regarded them impassively. They became vaguely aware of shouting from behind them when the girl started to sing, but soon all other sound became drowned out as her voice slowly escalated from a single musical note to a high-pitched scream.

  The capes and hair of the Lost Boys at first fluttered in an unlikely wind. This buffeting air turned to a gale, and grew denser, like water hitting them as if from a waterfall. Pressure built in their ears and their eyes twitched. The lead pair of men tried to draw their swords and rush forward, but they fell to their knees and joined their comrades on the ground, holding their hands to their ears, crying out in pain. Their cries disappeared in the invisible hurricane engulfing them.

  Blood gushed from their mouths, eyes, and noses, and it oozed between the fingers pressed against their ears. The blood floated away in droplets. Their writhing forms rose in the air. Capes, weapons, hair, and any other loose objects on them traveled skyward.

  Their heads exploded in blossoms of red gore.

  When Corbin looked up, bodies rained down. The canopy had blown away, and even the trees behind swayed as if brushed by a passing giant. Teodorico and all those near him had fallen to the ground and rolled from side to side in pain, holding their heads. Beyond them, the enemy camp’s fringe was flattened. Already, however, the Lost Boys from deeper in the camp mobilized to come to the pope’s aid.

  “Chansonne, do it again,” Corbin shouted to the girl.

  Chansonne looked in the direction of the gathering men and opened her mouth.

  Nothing came out but a choking cough.

  Her eyes went wide and she grasped her throat with her hands, struggling to make a sound.

  “Dammit,” Corbin cursed, standing and drawing his sword. “Lucan! Take her back to safety, now! Patrick, Brian, Bisch... with me!”

  He charged Teodorico and his entourage. The other Avangarde joined him with a war cry. Their heavy armor made the distance feel like leagues, however, and by the time they arrived at their target, Philip and several others waited with drawn weapons.

  Corbin tackled Philip and knocked him over. He used the momentum to roll and continue on his way to the crawling Teodorico. He didn’t get far when Philip grabbed his leg from behind. Corbin turned just in time to fend off a sword blow. The Rhinelander swung again, but Patrick’s blade deflected it.

  “Get Teodorico!” Patrick called, and engaged Philip with furious swings.

  Corbin stood and stumbled towards the pope, cutting down two dazed Cardinal Guards barring his path. The sound of hand-to-hand combat rose all around him as he reached for the old man. Before he could grab Teodorico and hold a blade to him, his attention flicked to the onrushing mob of Lost Boys.

  #

  Patrick was wild and angry with his sword, sending Philip staggering. Chansonne’s voice had dazed the man, but he managed to deflect every one of Patrick’s blows.

  Between swings, Patrick snatched a glance at the battlefield. Brian had just cleaved one opponent in two in a shower of blood, only to have another stand in his path. Bisch windmilled his two-handed sword against three Cardinal Guardsmen. Corbin almost stood over their prize, but had to brace himself against a new onslaught of soldiers.

  Patrick cursed their luck. Philip found his footing and took the offensive, planting his boot in Patrick’s gut. In a heartbeat he was on the ground and Philip stood over him. All around, the tide of Lost Boys and Cardinal Guardsmen washed closer, eroding hope.

  “Goodbye, Patrick!” Philip cried, raising his sword. His green eyes blazed.

  Before the blade could fall, Philip hurtled back in a shower of splintering wood. A flash of horse’s flank shot overhead, bearing a rider whose surcoat colors Patrick recognized.

  “Jakob,” he murmured thankfully.

  More reinforcements from Greensprings raced through on horseback, breaking up the press of enemy soldiers. Patrick hacked at the air just to make room to stand up and breathe. Nearby, Jakob wheeled his horse around and tossed a broken lance aside for his sword, and then fought his way back towards Patrick.

  Philip stumbled to his feet and ripped off a disfigured shoulder guard. Before he could retrieve his sword, a new battle cry went up. Josef
was riding at him from the other direction, a lance leveled at his chest. Rather than run or duck, Philip crouched and waited with nerves as tempered as a sword’s steel. When the right moment arrived, he side-stepped and dropped his weight on the shaft of the passing weapon, cradling it underneath his arm. The maneuver sent the tip of the lance into the ground.

  Even before Patrick could form the thought, Let go! Josef was flung from the saddle. The young knight came crashing down, and his helmet bounced away.

  Patrick cried out and redoubled his efforts to fight his way past the five men who separated him from Philip and the boy. Jakob diverted his mount to come to Josef’s assistance. Philip was quick; he picked up the lance tip and hurled it at the rider, striking him square in the chest, and knocking him from the saddle. Philip bent to retrieve one of the many weapons littering the battlefield and returned his attention to Josef.

  Patrick crushed one man’s face with the pommel of his sword, ducked another’s swing, and pierced another through with his blade. By the time he extracted it, another two men blocked his path and Josef and Philip exchanged blows. Jakob reappeared and joined his friend in fighting the Rhinelander.

  They attacked Philip with youth and exuberance, but Philip moved between them and deflected their blows with the grace and power of an experienced warrior.

  An Avangarde horn sounded a retreat and the ferocious action around Patrick became frenetic. He deflected a blow from a Lost Boy, nearly severed the leg of a Cardinal Guardsman, ducked the slash of another, spun away from a slash to his back, and continued his way toward the battling trio.

  Philip dropped Josef with a blow to the neck. The blade did not penetrate Josef’s chain mail hood, but the grotesque angle at which Josef’s head flopped left no doubt at the result.

  Rage erupted in Patrick, sending his skin to tingling as if his anger tried to claw its way out of his body. He took out his wrath on the next Cardinal Guardsman to block his path, hacking him to pieces. Hot blood washed over his face, temporarily blinding him. The act of savagery did nothing to quell the rising panic. He could not reach the surviving boy. By the time he had finished the Guard and cleared his eyes, Jakob had fallen to his knees with his back to Philip, but facing Patrick. He cradled a forearm, at the end of which dangled a hand facing the wrong direction. Philip drew back his sword and shoved the blade into his back, exploding the tip out the front of Jakob’s chest in a spew of chain links and gore.