On the far right was an unnaturally tall behemoth. The amount of wool that it required to create his cloak must have come from entire flock of sheep. His cowl concealed his face, but a pair of red eyes were fixed on them, as if gauging their abilities. He wore platemail as well, though silver and covered in grime. A large greataxe was held in the figure’s right hand; the weapon the largest of its kind he had ever seen. Fear crept up on him; he felt like a dwarf in the tall man’s presence, and they were across the glen from each other.
Standing a few steps closer and in the middle of the group was another cloaked figure, of average height and build, the shadows swallowing the face under the hood. He had a long staff that looked to be made of white crystals, a large one fixed to its tip. He acted like he only used it for support, but it was obvious it had other uses as well.
“You have no need for your weapons, we come in peace,” the apparent leader announced.
His sword did not waiver and his body shook with anticipation, sweat dripping down his face. Neither one of them relaxed their stance, unconvinced. His eyes flittered from axe to sword and he suddenly felt something pulling at his mind. His thoughts began to cloud over, and his arm began to lower on its own volition. Focusing his thoughts, he drove the pressure back and brought it up once more.
“Jared, I don’t need your help,” the cloaked figure stated, and the blind boy grimaced from the reproach. “We’re not here to hurt you, only seek to make an introduction.” The man came closer, arms outstretched.
“Be warned, I’m Tristan of Lancaster, heir to the throne of Griedlok, and my bodyguards will soon be upon us. It’s best you return from whence you came before they arrive,” he responded. Taking a step forward and placing himself in front of his betrothed instinctively. He didn’t know who these people were, or how they got here unnoticed, but he felt uneasy in the presence of such a formidable gathering.
The man chuckled, “oh, I know full well who you are and be assured, our time together will go unnoticed by your famed Guardians.”
“Got that right,” the blind boy boasted with a smile.
What the hell did that mean? Were there more of them in the forest? Were their bodyguards already dead?
“No harm has befallen your men. They simply do not know we are here. They will remain oblivious until we wish it otherwise,” the cloaked figure stated matter-of-factly.
He is reading my thoughts!
Fury rose, setting fire to his heart, and his wounded pride spilled forth its venom. “It’s obvious from the presence of your blind comrade that you followed us here from the castle. If a true introduction was intended, you’d have met us there in the open, unafraid of the army camped in the vicinity. As you have slunk in the shadows and waited til the two of us were alone, far from home and support, I’m guessing your intentions are far less honorable than you make them out to be. If its ransom you seek, name your price. I will see it paid. But let’s be done with this charade of lies and speak only truth from here on out,” he sneered, hoping the fear just under the surface did not make his voice waiver as he spoke.
The others in the man’s group bristled, hands tightening on their weapons, but their leader appeared less impressed by his bold statement.
His body tensed, sure that battle was about to commence. He braced himself for what would surely be a short fight. He was unarmored and barely skilled with the sword. They looked like veteran warriors who could dispose of him quickly if they wanted. With a raised hand from their leader, the other three appeared to relax. He, however, kept his grip tight and ready just in case.
“Is this how Princes of Lancaster are taught to greet their guests? With ignorant spiteful words?” the cowled man responded coldly.
He snorted, “I’m sorry, did I misplace your invitation?”
Silence gripped the glen, even the creatures of the forest were quiet. The tension was suffocating, and each party waited for the other to make the first move. If the Guardians were indeed ignorant of their plight, then it appeared to be a hopeless cause to resist. Despite his words, they had yet to show aggression, which made him wary of his suspicions, but how could he really know for sure? Obviously, this was a planned meeting, one meant to take place with no one else around to interfere, but no move had been made against them.
Why do they wait?
“I’m letting you work it out,” came the smooth voice from beneath the hood, answering his unspoken question.
He heard Willow clear her throat, “what do you want?”
“Merely to talk, Princess of Griedlok,” replied the mysterious stranger.
They all stood in silence for what felt like hours and he realized that there was no point of resisting any further. He was unarmored and wielding a short sword that he was certain would never penetrate the platemail of just two of their foes. The magic Willow held in restraint might help, but he didn’t believe it was enough. With a grunt, he sheathed his sword; it was useless anyway. Though, instead of hanging it back on the tree, he strapped it about his waist. “Please,” he beckoned with his hand, giving leave for the man to approach.
The cloaked figure stepped forward while the other three remained at the tree line. The man moved slowly, as if to ward off provoking them further. He stopped a few paces from their position and slowly drew back his hood. The man appeared to be in his thirties. His mustache and goatee were peppered with sporadic gray hairs, giving him a distinguished look. His brow was prominent, and his pale green eyes were deeply set, the orbs penetrating his soul. He knew that there was no secret he harbored that this man could not ferret out. He felt power in that gaze, his presence exuded it, and he involuntarily took a step backward.
“Who are you?” he asked in a strained voice.
“My name—is Merlin,” the man replied, and a shiver ran up Tristan’s back, a part of his soul calling out recognition, as if from a distant memory.
III
Far to the east, a restless King toured his battlements.
With exception of the storm in the distance, the day was clear, and the bright blue sky strove to calm his nerves. Still, his gaze was drawn west, and he felt the uneasiness that filled his soul renewed. It was one hell of a storm hovering on the horizon and prayed to the Gods that it did not head their way; yet knew it was foolish to do so. The Gods had always left it up to them to decide their fate, no divine intervention would be incoming.
He stood above the drawbridge, hand upon the concrete wall, feeling the pitted texture beneath his fingers. He put his other hand out and stroked the flag sitting idly on its stand, bereft of wind. A falcon flew overhead, obscured by the sun piercing down upon him; a symbol of his family’s crest and hopefully an omen that all would go in their favor.
He watched the grass below move with a gentle breeze and felt his body sway with it. Relief was needed from the stress that plagued his heart and his dreams. He hadn’t gotten much sleep before his magister woke him, and what little he got was filled with nightmares. Even the comforting press of his wife’s body against his did little to keep them at bay.
Now that he had a moment’s peace, half remembered images began to fill his mind.
Three different times he had awoken, each from a different nightmare.
In the first, he was looking down on a human wearing silver armor covered in mud and gunk. The face felt familiar to him, though he could never recall ever meeting the man. He was on his knees next to a golden armored figure weeping. Protruding from this fallen knight’s chest was a beautiful sword which shimmered in the light of a full moon. There was power in the sword; he could feel it calling to him as if it had a voice of its own.
“Take Excalibur. Give it to Nimue, she will keep it safe until it is needed again,” the man coughed, blood gushing from his mouth as he spoke. The name given to the sword sang in his blood and he felt his hand reaching for the sword’s hilt. Then his eyes chanced on the face of the dying man, and the unmistakable grief gave him pause as pity filled his heart.
The next had him standing in this very spot on the battlements, eyes once again turned westward. The grasslands were filled with an enormous army that stretched across the limit of his vision and was still filing out of the forest beyond. They were well organized and siege engines were being pushed forward for an assault. Dark creatures flew overhead, and the air was charged with electricity as lightning struck the flag pole his fingers were currently resting upon.
An unknown youth had been standing at his side and cringed with the violent attack of the storm overhead. On his left was a cloaked figure with a crystalline staff, his cloak billowing in the wind. They made for an odd trio and were gazing down at the horrors approaching with defiance and the resolve to see it through, to whatever end. In his hand was the same magical blade, Excalibur. He watched as the sword was raised above his head and a war cry spilled forth, the knights below rallying to his cause.
The third had been even more confusing than the rest; if that were possible.
He was battling a knight in some unknown darkened battlefield. His faceplate was raised, yet he bore no face; the helmet void of life. The knight was clad in the same silver armor that he had seen in the first dream, an identical sword in the man’s hands. They circled each other, lunging, parrying; neither giving or losing ground. Their blades met and sparks flew; then he woke up to his steward’s hands shaking him.
Were these prophecies that he beheld or some part of his subconscious preying on his fears? They felt vivid; too real to be mere fantasy. The truth was, he didn’t know and was unprepared to ask even his wife for advice. He needed time to analyze them further. The uncertainty that came with it made him restless and irritable. Combined with the lack of sleep, he’d been in a foul mood most of the morning. He hadn’t recognized the people he had seen, which told him that if they were prophecy, it wasn’t going to happen any time soon.
Sighing, he turned his thoughts to current events.
Revan had been right. When he had approached the High Council with the news from Lancaster, they fidgeted and whined about the safety of their home. The consensus was that more time was needed; more debate required before action could be taken. Technically, he could force the army to march; what could they do to stop him? Yet he was a man of law, and as such had to obey them as well or they were not worth the parchment they were written upon.
He was glad that they’d anticipated their reaction. Revan had been busy while he was in the council chambers. A few hours earlier, a contingent of his knights rode across the grasslands on their way to Lancaster’s aid. They were led by one of his oldest friends and ally, Tar Reiz. The elf was a grizzled veteran and would do what he could to help Constantine stall for time while he tried to get the army underway. Tar Reiz had been eager for the command, plagued by the same restlessness that he felt in his bones. A small band of druids accompanied them, and he could see they were excited to put their skills to work as well. Only five hundred had gone, a token force, but more than he been advised to provide.
Upon reflecting on that nightmare of an army besieging his castle, he began to doubt that sending them was the right move. If that army appeared after he sent forces south—best not to think on that. The fact was, he could not stand there and do nothing. Help had been called for and he had to respond. He knew that if that dream did come to pass, five hundred elves would mean nothing against a force of that size.
No, he had done the right thing and would doubt himself no longer. He would continue to work on the council again that afternoon, knowing that they would attack him for sending a force out against their wishes. A training exercise would have worked as an excuse any other time, but the timing of his recent requests would make it an obvious lie. He would own it and call for more to be sent. They would not cower behind the castle walls while their friends and allies faced the enemy alone. Even if he had to commit political suicide, he would see it done.
A wave of nausea hit, and bile rose quickly in an attempt to make him vomit. His vision blurred, and he was suddenly unsteady on his feet. He raised a hand to his forehead in a vain attempt to control the dizziness sweeping through him. Gravity pulled him sideways and he used his other hand to try to keep upright.
“My name—is Merlin.”
His bones vibrated, and his nerves lit up. His entire body tingled, his vision tilting and forcing him to one knee. Gasping for air, he fought the urge to vomit, he wasn’t successful. Then the world went black.
“It has begun.”
IV
Though her body lay in a bed within the confines of her fortress, her spirit resided within that of a crow. She was perched on a branch high in a tree overlooking a glen in a distant forest. Her red eyes darted around, inspecting her surroundings; taking note of everything she saw. Four figures hovered near the tree line, while two frisky teenagers made out just beneath her claws. With great interest, she listened to the conversation that ensued and if a crow could smile, it would be ear to ear.
She had spies everywhere, but it was nice to get what she sought straight from the source. She didn’t know all those assembled; but that didn’t matter. Soon they’d all be dead, and no one would stand to oppose her; her victory assured. Her eyes switched from the cowardly mage and focused on the black armored whelp standing next to her brother. Maybe she’d save that one for last; she missed the woman’s tortured screams.
“My name—is Merlin,” her adversary said, removing his hood.
He had finally come out of the shadows and revealed himself to the world! She had been waiting for this moment for far too long. Now she would finally have her revenge upon the man that had engineered her downfall.
The crow’s body shook with the power behind his words and she could feel the fabric of time tremble with what had been put in motion. Anger and hate boiled in her small vessel, almost making it explode. She wanted to fly down there and peck his eyes out; end his life before he ever took another step. Her vision went black as an arrow penetrated the crow’s body, its life-force extinguished.
Enraged, she awoke to the shell she had created and screamed, the walls shaking with her anger. All that heard it cringed with fear that soon their lives would become forfeit.
She needed to hear what came next!
Her mind searched for another minion to occupy but could no longer pinpoint the location of that forest clearing. That they were now shielded from her eyes drove her further into madness and she leapt off the bed in one swift violent leap. Naked, she strode from her chambers and her vicious gaze fell on a goblin cowering in a nearby corner. She brought her hands together, called upon her magic, and then forced her arms wide. The creature disintegrated before her eyes, blood spattering the walls in a gruesome display of power.
Her breath came in quick forceful gasps; her vision red as they searched for another victim to destroy. Her bloodlust was not even close to being sated, but no others were in immediate reach, having fled at the sound of her first cry. Frustrated, she stalked back into her chambers and reached for her clothes. Once adorned with her regal robes, she went to the mirror on her wall and called upon her magic once more.
A gargoyle appeared in the reflection and he cringed at the visage that greeted him. “Yes, your Majesty?”
“It’s time, General. Give the order. Kill every man and child, enslave the women, and bring me the head of the man carrying the crystalline staff,” she demanded, spit flying with her furious words. “And if you are able to lay hands on that Blackburn bitch, take care to leave her unharmed. I want to deal with that traitorous slut myself.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” the commander of her army choked, and the image disappeared.
Let them gather and plan; it would not matter. Within days her armies would sweep their way and eradicate every last one of them. That infernal mage was too late; her forces were already in motion. Nothing that old fool could do would make a damn bit of difference. She had been planning for this for a very long time and she licked her lips in the anticipation of see
ing his severed head on a pike.
The war would be over long before anyone realized what was happening.
“It has begun,” she told her reflection. The smile that creased her face looked unnatural and the cackle that ensued was even more horrifying. It echoed behind her as she strode towards her bed, disrobing as she walked. She laid down and closed her eyes once more, letting her spirit soar.
Chapter 4
Opening Moves
I
“It can’t be,” Willow whispered in disbelief.
He heard the familiar twang of a bow in the distance and seconds later there was a soft thump on his right. He jerked, his hand reaching for his sword. An arrow shaft was protruding from the grass near his right foot. Had someone just shot at them? Hand on pommel, he bent over to inspect the impaled object.
A crow was thrashing in its final death throes surrounded by bloodied grass, its body curling around the arrow that had so immediately snuffed out its life. Its wings were still twitching, neck craning its head to glare up at him. A shiver ran up his spine at the hate reflected in its beady eyes. Disgusted, he kicked it as hard as he could, the grass lessening the blow, but still enough to get it out of his eyesight. It bounced a few feet and disappeared into the long grass; a sigh of relief escaping him.
“What was it?” Willow inquired, leaning over his shoulder, having just missed his punting of the dying creature and glancing at him with curiosity.
“A freaky ass bird,” he told her, looking up.
The three members of Merlin’s group had stepped forward, the two warriors flanking the cloaked man for protection. The blind boy strode in the direction the corpse had been kicked and began poking at the ground with his staff.
The New Age Saga Box Set Page 9