He saw all of it and none of it. His mind was still processing all that he’d been told. The imagery of Merlin’s tale was frightening; he doubted he would sleep well that night. He could remember the mage’s last words with crystal clarity.
Excalibur.
The name made his heart sing. There was a calling in his blood, one that urged him to push forward; to find it at all cost. It was the answer he had been searching for; the purpose in which he craved. He didn’t know what it was, or how it would make a difference against the hordes of darkness, but he knew without question that he was going after it. He would succeed no matter what the cost. He turned his head and looked at his fiancé. Well, not at all cost. He’d never do anything that would cause her harm.
He saw that she was also lost in thought. He wondered if she had understood more than he had. She had known the mage for who he was, had some inkling of the history of the man before today. Thinking on that startled him, had this all happened in one day? He couldn’t believe you could fit so much in such a short period of time. He went from making out with his fiancé under an old oak tree, to getting shot, to being on the run from his home with a band of crusaders. If all of that could happen within the confines of one day, what would tomorrow bring? Did he dare wonder?
“I don’t know,’ she answered.
His gaze hardened, “don’t tell me you can do that now too.”
“Not at all. I don’t need telepathy in order to know what you’re thinking. Don’t forget, I know more about you than anyone else ever will.” With that, she rose and grasped the blanket they’d been sitting on. “Get up,” she huffed, pulling on the cloth, which in turn started to pull him off the log they’d been sharing.
“Alright, hold your horses,” he grunted. His legs were pins and needles and he almost fell on his ass. He had been in one position for way too long and it had cut off the circulation to his feet. His lower back ached and his ankles were swollen.
“Time for bed. We won’t learn anymore this night,” she whispered softly, the rest of the group had already fallen asleep. “Strange that he would seek us out for this quest.”
She used the word us, but he didn’t see the point in correcting her. She hadn’t been the target of assassins, nothing was said about her not being able to return home. But if he breathed a word in contradiction, she’d go into that “I go where you go” rift, and he was too tired to argue.
There’d been enough of that today.
He felt the weariness catching up to him and he finally gave in to what his body craved. It was best to end this day and start the morning with a fresh mind. Maybe then he’d have a better understand of what was happening, without the sluggishness slowing him down.
It was funny how the morning had started off as a romantic getaway and turned into him having to save the world from an evil witch. Well, maybe not that funny if they failed. It was too much for one person and he was suddenly grateful for the others’ presence. They’d be able to help shoulder the burden that was weighing upon his soul.
Willow had bedded down a short distance from the fire and he turned to douse it. “Lae it,” Token spoke up, “helps tae ward aff evil spirts. An’ laddie, efter th’ crows, Ah hink we coods use aw th’ help we can gie.”
He nodded his head at the suddenly sullen dwarf and went to lay by Willow’s side. Her hand slipped within his and before he could even turn his head to look at her, his eyes closed, and he was out.
Chapter 8
Blood and Tears
I
As a snake, she’d slithered her way up the embankment and through the long grass just outside the flicker of light. Careful not to draw attention, she burrowed her way into the dirt and listened carefully to what that bastard mage had to say. Her nemesis; the hateful man that had dispatched her from her previous existence, was droning on about ancient history and she half listened while studying the group assembled in front of him. Such a ragtag bunch of losers, they’d pose no threat if he was removed from leadership. They’d be lost without him, and she’d be able to pick them off one by one.
She heard herself compared to the Antichrist and her tongue flicked out with pleasure. She could accept that analogy. Far from truth, as she was not Satan’s progeny; but it was the fear that name still caused that felt most fitting. She could reach out and bite one of them; yet she waited. She wanted them all. Her crows had been scattered to the wind, but that was fine, they were watching the skies and had ceased looking to what lay between their feet. She’d wait til they fell asleep then—her connection was lost. She felt the blade pierce the neck and saw the face of an elven Guardian right before her vision blacked out. Her fury was immense; that bastard was about to tell her what he was up to.
“Goddammit!” she screamed, and the castle walls moaned in response. This had been twice she’d been cut off, right when that asshole was about to say something important!
Fuming, she stormed from her chambers and down the corridor. Her fingers twitched as she walked, bits of lightening jumping between nails as her wrath tried to find a target to unleash into. The servants were wisely hiding behind closed doors and she let the pathetic scum cower in fear. Striding into her throne room, she crossed the broken cobblestones, and took her seat on her throne. Hovering near the roof was the ancient book that the mage had been going on about.
Such a jealous coward. He didn’t want to destroy it, he wanted it all to himself. He had always hated the power she controlled and was constantly working to wrestle it from her fingers. How he had missed it during the long years in exile, she didn’t know. It had been concealed in a pit beneath the dungeons, obscured by her magic, but as strong as he was he should’ve been able to find it.
When she had finally clawed her way back from purgatory and regained her flesh, she had been surprised to find the book untouched. It had kept her tethered to this realm and had facilitated her return. Such fools to focus on her rather than the one object that sustained her life. Beckoning it with her mind, she reached up and seized the book as it slid into reach, her fingers crackling with the power contained within.
“Fitzroy!” she hollered at near-scream.
Across the throne room and above the door, was a perch where a gray gargoyle had been keeping vigilance. He appeared to be stone when completely still, but now his pitted skin shivered as he leapt to the floor below. His feet thundered on impact, wings first unfurling, then stretching. He approached the throne with pride; confident that his service over the last two thousand years had earned him a safe place in her inner circle.
Her soul sneered at the asinine assumption. “Pick out the deadliest goblin, jackyl, orc, and harpy and bring them to me,” she commanded her royal servant. There was an idea festering in the back of her mind and her smooth face cracked with a smile usually reserved for torturing.
“My Queen,” the gargoyle bowed, then took to the air. He exited through a window near the roof and was instantly gone from sight.
She paged through the book, remembering how tedious her studies had been when first retrieving it; how cautious she’d been with those first spells. She had marveled at her command of such powers and was ever hungry to learn more. Now, she had memorized the majority of its contents and felt less awe in their wielding. She lingered on a page, her eyes riveted to the spell she’d been hunting for; her heart swelling with joy.
She didn’t know how long it’d been, but her patience had started to grow thin by the time the four arrivals marched through the double doors. A tall, maroon skinned orc armored in platemail led the pack and she grinned at her gargoyle’s choices. The dark green goblin was hunched over, a mace dragging on the ground as he tried to hide behind his orc cousin. A jackyl, half man, half jackal, was on the orc’s right, his orange fur rustling with a breeze. His teeth were barred, and his eyes were filled with hunger. Flying overhead was a bright orange winged harpy, her talons sharp, her face contorted in rage.
Fitzroy burst through the window on the upper story and
landed on his perch above the door. His wings folded inward, and he once again went as still as stone; awaiting further orders from his Queen.
Standing, book in hand, she took a couple of steps forward, and towered over the four minions cowering before her. The harpy had landed and as one, they bowed before their ruler.
This was going to be fun.
She opened the book and began chanting from the page she’d found. She ignored the fear in their eyes as she called upon the magic within, fueling the words of the spell. It swelled in her heart, fingers throbbing with power, and as the last words were spoken she thrust out her hand at the four kneeling creatures at the base of the steps. Each one fell to the ground in agony; their bodies writhing in transformation.
She released her hold on the magic and let it do as she’d bid.
The orc fell to both knees, fist banging the ground as his body rippled, muscles bulged, and his shoulders widened. The harpy grew thinner, her body eating itself as her talons grew and wingspan increased. The goblin doubled in size and began throwing up green bile on her throne room floor, making her half tempted to make him lick it back up when it was over. Such a nasty creature. The jackyl’s fur lightened, eyes burned red, and his claws grew sharper.
When the transformation was complete, the four minions rose to their feet, testing the newfound strength within them. She approached the orc first. Standing over eight feet tall, he appeared more ogre now than orc. His pulsing veins bulged over his stretched muscles and he looked strong enough to tear down every wall in the castle without breaking a sweat. Her fingers reached out and with a flick, armor shivered into place. A red cloak unfurled, and two very large battleaxes appeared in the orc’s hands.
Stepping to the cowering goblin, she watched as it coughed up black sludge and spit it onto the floor; where it bubbled as it melted the cobblestones. Black spots festered on the grimy green skin, the plague raging just under the surface. Once more she flicked her fingers and armored her new creation. A green cloak slid down the goblin’s back, his mace lying forgotten by his side. She left it in rags, the open sores that had begun to sprout would be less deadly covered.
Turning to the emaciated harpy, she felt no pity for the hunger in the creature’s eyes. Skin and bones, the harpy attempted to stand, but ended up hunched over with fatigue. In her mind, she pictured the perfect armor to protect this vile creature and called upon her magic to bring it into existence. Light-but-hardened dragon scales came into existence, molded perfectly to the flying terror’s body, her feathers becoming blades of steel.
Finally, she reeled on the seven-foot Jackyl and found it standing upright, eyeing her coldly. He appeared detached from fear, his body relaxed and given in to its fate. She summoned black plate mail to cover her masterpiece and a large scythe appeared in his hands. A black cape and cowl rose from the shadows and clung to the jackyl’s body. It acted like it was alive, slithering hungrily across the floor, ready to do the creature’s bidding.
Taking a few steps back, she appreciated the four horrors that she had created, and each waited patiently for her to give them commands. “I’ve been called the Antichrist, so shall I be; for you are my Four Horsemen and will usher in a new apocalypse and bring this world to its knees.”
II
John had stepped in to check on his brother and was surprised to find the chamber empty, the bed untouched. That was odd. Tristan had been shot earlier that day and should have been resting; not off gallivanting about the castle. The guards were no longer posted, and his mind tingled with uneasiness. Where the hell had the boy gone off to? Was he spending time with his fiancé? There was celebrating life and then there was recklessly endangering it due to impatience.
He strode quickly from the royal wing and turned in the direction of the guest quarters. Bursting into Willow’s room, he found her things thrown about and one of her bags gone. This was not the time for the two of them to be sneaking off; there was an enemy horde approaching the castle! Enemy scouts could be patrolling the forest already, it was not safe to be wandering about; especially at night.
One of his general’s aides had the misfortune of walking by and became alert at the prince’s presence. “Have you seen my brother today?” he asked the timid youth.
“No, Sire,” the young boy shook his head.
He dismissed the aide, to the youth’s relief, and pushed hastily by; heading for his father’s chambers. Maybe the old man had an idea what was going on. He’d spent most of the afternoon with his younger brother before the War Council had been convened and had to know something.
Reentering the family wing of the palace, he rounded a corner and bumped into Clint. The man was flustered, but his eyes were hard. “Apologies,” the king’s aide mumbled, hands straightening his crumpled tunic. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”He had never liked the man and didn’t bother to hide that fact as he stared at the aide with distaste. What did he care what the older man thought of him? Over the years, the aide had taken to carrying himself as if he were ruling the kingdom; not his father.
He smirked at the thought of how they first met. Clint had shown up as a teenager on the palace steps, begging to serve his father, and he felt the old man had only allowed it out of pity. There were plenty of starving children out there who would have given anything to be taken in by the royal family; what was so different about this one? “Is that how you talk to your future king?” he inquired with authority.
Unlike the rest of the guards, the older aide didn’t stand at attention or look stricken by the remark. It actually seemed to bounce right off as if unnoticed. “If you’re going to see your father, you should know that he’s down for the night and has ordered that no one is to bother his slumber. He had an exhausting day, as you should know.”
“No shit,” he snorted derisively. “We’ve all had a long day. If I want to see my father, I will, or I won’t; that’s a choice I will make without the advice of my father’s lackey.”
Clint’s eyes narrowed and for a second, he felt like the man was a coiled viper about to strike. “As you wish, my Lord,” the aide finally offered after a brief silence, the last word heavy in sarcasm and spite.
The man had removed himself from John’s path and he shouldered past, nearly tossing the aide aside with rage. One of the first things he’d do when crowned was exile that smug son of a bitch. Striding around another corner, he entered the hall leading to his father’s room, and with a soft click, stepped into his father’s chambers.
Candlelight flickered across the drapes as he walked slowly into the dimly lit interior. He knew the layout by heart, his father hadn’t changed a thing since his mother’s death. He edged around the side of the king-sized bed and looked upon the slumbering monarch. His father was under several blankets and didn’t stir when he approached. That was odd; his father had always been a light sleeper; made worse by the aches and pains of old age. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the slight rise and fall of his father’s chest. The king’s long gray hair shook as his son reached down and tried to wake him. Love and affection rose to the forefront of his heart; bypassing the ache he’d felt at his father’s fragile state.
The old man refused to open his eyes. He paused to listen for a second and upon hearing a sharp intake of breath, began shaking the old man harder; panic setting in. “Guards!” he bellowed over his shoulder; not sure if anyone would hear. To his relief, the door opened, and a guard burst into the room, alert and ready for trouble. “Summon the clerics immediately!”
Without waiting to see if the guard would react, he placed his ear on the king’s chest, barely hearing a heartbeat. “Shit!” He turned the old man flat on his back and looked-for water. The old man’s lips were dry and had begun to turn purple; his face ashen.
The candle’s flame pulsed slowly, as if counting down what remained of his father’s life.
He grabbed the pitcher of water on the bedside table and reached for the cup. The pitcher was tilted, the water about
to flow, when he saw something odd in the cup’s bottom. His hand opened, and the pitcher crashed against the floor. There was a silver crust caked on the inside and he took a quick sniff; the floral aroma setting his heart ablaze as his mind screamed poison!
A white robed cleric rushed through the doors, two guards on his heels. A family physician since his father had been a boy, the elderly man was one of the only people he’d truly trust with his father’s care. The cleric laid a hand on his father’s chest and spoke in an ancient language, calling upon God to heal his dying friend.
He stood up, feeling helpless, and saw the two gawking guards standing in the doorway. “Seal the palace! No one leaves without my permission!”
“Yes, my Lord,” they managed before his wrath. They bowed their heads, then departed before he tore into them further.
When they were outside of the palace the Guardians were in charge of their safety, but within these walls it fell to the palace guard. Looking down upon his dying father, he knew that was soon going to change. His brother wouldn’t have disappeared into thin air or his father been poisoned had proper precautions and protections been in place.
“I’m sorry, my healing prayers were heard, but there is no answer. For whatever reason, God has decided it’s time to call your father home. All we can do is wait and see if He changes his mind,” the exhausted cleric told him grimly.
“My father is going to die,” he stated with detachment; eyes seeing but not believing. His voice had broken near the end, grief starting to rise within his heart. He cleared his throat and tried to straighten up.
“Unless we can discover the nature of the poison and find an antidote, yes. However, I fear it has already progressed too far for even that. For now, he sleeps, but that won’t last. You have a few hours at most. He’s in God’s hands.”
The New Age Saga Box Set Page 18