Albion's Legacy (Sons Of Camelot Book 3)

by Sarah Luddington

  My shoulders slumped, my eyes opened and I realised was I never going to be calm enough for long enough to reach Galahad. I might be able to brush against him in panic but I couldn’t search for him alone, I wasn’t fey, I wasn’t anything but a man with a narcotic habit. I rubbed my face with my hands. The night was coming on and the thought of being stuck in a magical wood during the hours of darkness didn’t fill me with any sense of joy.

  “I’m fucked. If The Lady wanted to pick us off one by one because we’re stronger together, then she can do it now. I’m never going to find him.”

  I sighed heavily and rose, seeing to my immediate physical needs. While I stood there, pissing against a different tree to the one my horse was tied to, I caught a shadow moving among the dark trunks.

  It didn’t move like my friend and I finished my pee without hurrying, lacing myself back into the hose slowly and, without a care in the world, I returned to the horse. Using his body as a shield between me and the movement I slipped into the trees and began to slowly circle the strange shadow which lurched and jerked between the tall thick trunks.

  Slowly, and with a skill I’d sadly neglected for too long, I made my way toward the shape from behind. It gradually resolved itself into the figure of a person. I crept closer and the figure became a man. Closer still. The figure became a horror story.

  “Holt?” asked the figure when he saw the horse.

  It was Galahad. Old and bent double with the weight of time heavy on his thin shoulders.

  “Galahad, I’m here,” I said from behind him.

  He jumped as if stung, shocked and confused by my sudden appearance as I walked toward him. Those beautiful dark eyes were dull and grey with cataracts. “Galahad, what’s happened?” I asked.

  “Holt, my love,” he whispered, the thin voice was strained by emotion. He reached out with a wizened and shrunken hand. I wanted to pull away but knew I couldn’t, it would hurt this old man too much for me to reject him. “You are so young, so lovely,” he said, the rheumy eyes searching my face in the twilight of the forest. His fingers were dry and papery against my cheek and the scar on Galahad’s jaw was lost among the many, many lines of aged skin.

  His hand dropped from my face and reached for my fingers. When he laced his through mine the faint weight of an old man leaned into me. How could this be possible? How could I be supporting the weight of an old man? What had gone wrong and what was happening in the real world?

  I took a breath and felt something odd, or rather I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel the bonding. We were touching, skin to skin contact and there was nothing. Not even a shiver of his power through me.

  Fey parlour tricks or the result of old age sucking at Galahad’s bones?

  “Help me,” he begged.

  “How?” I asked, leading him the rest of the way toward the horse, which snorted and shifted with unease, clearly unhappy with the company. I took note of his reaction.

  The old man began to sit so I helped him down to the moss and grass covered stone which I didn’t remember being there a few moments ago.

  “How has this happened?” I asked, crouching down in front of the old man.

  The smile I remembered from my friend’s face cast a ghastly shadow over my memories as the old man leered at me. “I passed the trials, Holt. I passed them. I am King. I am finally King of Albion. We can fight, we can fight The Lady now. We can win.”

  Each of his sentences was accompanied by his hands touching me, those dry, papery, thin fingers stroking my face, neck, chest and arms.

  “Galahad, you can’t fight, you are an old man,” I said. I was confused and the feeling I sought, the sense of the bonding flared bright for a moment but didn’t seem to be coming from the figure in front of me. The old man distracted my thoughts though because his thumbs were rubbing over my lips. I pulled the questing fingers away from my face and struggled to remember why I was here. Where was here?

  The forest, Holt. You are in the forest being used for the trials of kingship, think man, think, I told myself, disengaging from the old man and rising to escape those hands. My head began to clear.

  “You can’t fight in that state, The Lady will kill you and all this will be for nothing. How can the trials have done this to you?” I asked him.

  The old man rose with a fluid grace not possible in a human, never mind someone with a back bowed by time.

  “I faced the trials and I won, I am King, I just need you to come and fuck me. That’s what you want isn’t it?” hissed the parody in front of me.

  “Who are you?” I asked, backing off. “What are you? Because you aren’t my friend. You aren’t anything human or fey.”

  The smile changed, became redder, rounder, softer and infinitely more cruel. “No, I am not your friend,” said the old man, straightening slowly. “I will never be your friend, Loholt Pendragon.”

  My knees turned to water. The figure of Galahad morphed before my eyes into The Lady.

  “You should be anywhere but here,” I whispered, pulling my sword while knowing it was utterly useless.

  She smiled and the black eyes sparkled. “I am not human. I am not fey. I am a goddess. I am the goddess that shall take the throne.”

  “He’ll never marry you. Never. He would rather die than give you the throne, witch.”

  The figure before me moved with a blur of speed and I slammed into a tree, a small white hand around my throat, crushing my windpipe. I tried to raise my sword to strike her but she merely swiped at it as if a fly and I dropped the weapon, stung in my palm by raw power.

  Her eyes glittered and a small pink tongue licked her lips, savouring her victory at last. “I am going to take the throne, King of Camelot. I am going to take it and I am going to ram it down the throat of that old bitch Albion. I am going to take her life and once I have drawn her spirit into mine, I am going to take her place. I don’t want to be a queen, I want to be the next scion of this world. I will be the new Albion and your pathetic city state will be swallowed whole along with that corruption of fey life, The City. You will all die. I will have you all. I will kill you all. I will purify this world at last because I will be this world.”

  The entire time she spoke those small fingers squeezed and squeezed my neck. I clawed at her hands but nothing touched that porcelain skin, it was as if she were made of naked white steel. The smile on her face while she choked the life out of me chilled my blood even as my heels beat a tattoo on the tree she pinned me against.

  “Galahad will die,” I managed to gasp.

  “I know, that’s the plan. I cannot reach him, he is deep within the trials, but I can kill you, human scum, so I shall and with your death he will lose and I shall gain. Albion threw her last dice and lost. I win because I have you, King of Camelot and you aren’t the White Hart, you are nothing.”

  Black dots appeared in my eyes, my vision darkened and slowly the pressure of her hands, and the tightening of her fingers no longer mattered. It was all going away.

  My last thought was, Severus, I’m so sorry.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I gasped, the burning pain in my throat and chest utterly overwhelming for long moments. I screwed my eyes shut and heaved in breath after breath. As my panic eased I began to pick up on the absence of things previously taken for granted. I heard nothing other than my own wheezing and heartbeat. It wasn’t silence, it was an absence. The scent of the world surrounding me wasn’t clean, it just didn’t have a smell. The dearth of sound and scent disturbed me but once I had my breathing under some kind of control I took in my surroundings using my eyes.

  A thick mist wove around me, obscuring my vision and shifting its veils in a breeze I did not feel. I realised I sat on a rock covered in old, thick and damp moss. The damp soaked my leather hose forcing me to move. I felt the wet, experienced its reality but I couldn’t smell it and something told me tasting it wouldn’t be wise.

  “Galahad...” I whispered. What had happened to him? Was this the Land
of the Dead and would he be following me because of the bonding?

  I touched the hilt of my sword, more for comfort than any real feeling of danger. “Hello?” I called out.

  The fog moved more swiftly, the veils turning over each other, an endless sense of chaos disturbed by my intrusion.

  “Hello?” I tried again, with more force. If this was the Land of the Dead who would meet me first – friend or foe?

  Loholt Pendragon, a whisper of sound.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” I asked, then muttered, “I don’t have time for these games.”

  “No game, son,” came a voice from the mist. The Black Wolf of Albion strode toward me. Grey hair no longer wreathed through the black tangle. The creases at the corners of his eyes were not yet permanent and his strength felt like a force of nature. He strode toward me with a confidence I never felt.

  “Lancelot.” I breathed his name, the shock of confirming my reality was overwhelming. Having spent so much time with Galahad and now seeing his father the similarities were obvious but also the profound differences. I began to understand why one was a wolf and the other a great cat.

  “We don’t have much time, Holt,” Lancelot said. “Don’t lose focus.”

  I drew in a sharp breath, trying to force myself into the moment. “Father?” I asked, unable to control the flash of hope and fear.

  “The veils can only be parted so far, son, I am sorry,” Lancelot said, his dark eyes sad for my sake. He reached out and placed a conciliatory hand on my shoulder. The weight of it galvanised me. The distance between us vanished and Lancelot embraced me. It felt like home. It felt safe. The fate of Camelot and Albion no longer rested on my shoulders. For just a moment they returned to the Black Wolf.

  All too soon Lancelot pushed me back and looked into my soul. “Talk to me, Holt. Why have I been pulled from my rest? Why are we in this netherworld?”

  I could no longer look into those dark eyes, the compassion far more capable of condemning me than anything Galahad could summon. “I have failed. At every turn I have failed you and father.” My words were quietly spoken by my shame.

  “How have you failed, Holt?” Lancelot asked, his voice gentle.

  “It’s a very long story but my most recent mistakes involve The Lady.” I glanced up at the Black Wolf to gauge his expression at her name.

  A low rumble escaped him and I swore his dark eyes flashed amber for a moment, manifesting a wolf in a way he couldn’t during his life. “What’s wrong? What’s happened to Galahad?”

  “Sire...”

  “Facts, Holt. I need facts if I am to help you and my son.” He paced before me, vibrating with a restlessness which I felt easily in this alien netherworld.

  “Yes, Sire. We bonded, Galahad faces the trials, The Lady has, I believe, killed me and in doing so has condemned Galahad.” The words hurt. Galahad dead because I didn’t act and wasn’t strong enough to stop The Lady.

  “You have bonded to Galahad? Does this mean you are lovers?” Lancelot asked.

  “Not exactly. We... He’s... Complicated,” I said thinking of all the heartache and arguments we’d shared over the last few months. “We are brothers though, I have knighted him, we are bonded but he only did it to save me from a wayward dragon.”

  Lancelot blinked in shock and stopped moving for a moment. “A dragon?”

  “Wayward dragon, who didn’t know what he was – not really. He’s with Albion now. He died saving me,” I said.

  “It’s been an eventful year,” Lancelot said, his tone dry.

  “It hasn’t been a full year, not yet, but The Lady has forced Albion’s hand so Galahad must face the trials early. Only now he’ll die because I’m here with you,” I said. “I am sorry, Sire.”

  “Don’t call me that, Holt. Those days are gone, thank the gods. And this isn’t the Land of the Dead. Not yet. We have time,” Lancelot said. “But I do need some help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “The kind that only we can call on, Loholt Pendragon. It looks like you’ll see your father again after all. Give me your hand,” Lancelot instructed.

  I offered him my palm. He gripped it hard and said, “I carry no iron, son, I need you to cut your hand open. This will be a blood sacrifice to pull the souls to us that we need, they are ready and listening so it won’t take much.”

  With my right hand I drew my scramasax from the small of my back and drew the sharp blade across my palm, it stung like a bitch. Blood instantly swelled from the wound and Lancelot turned it face down to force it to drip onto the ground. Once the blood flowed steadily he walked with me in a small circle and the blood joined together, and when the last drop touched the first part of the circle it burst into bright flame. Lancelot spoke in a language I didn’t know and the world around us seemed to shiver in response.

  “You’ve learned even more tricks than I thought, husband,” said Morgana as she walked from the mists looking younger than I ever remembered her.

  Holding her hand was my father. Young, golden, strong and smiling at me.

  “Father...” I pulled out of Lancelot’s grip and threw myself into Arthur’s arms. He held me as only a father can hold a son that he truly loves.

  “Holt,” he murmured into my neck, breathing in my scent as I did his.

  The tears were instant. I couldn’t hold them back. I’d been so alone and scared and vulnerable.

  “I am so sorry,” I said, clinging to him and never wanting to release the strength he gave. “I have let Camelot down. I have let you down. I am an utter failure, Father.”

  “Never, son, never.” He pushed me back slightly and kissed my cheeks, stroking back my hair. “You could never fail me. Only those of us who wear the crown of Camelot know how heavy it can be. And only those of us who have looked into The Lady’s dead eyes know how terrifying facing her can be and how hard. You have not failed me or Camelot.” I could see the tears in his eyes, but he refused them permission to fall.

  “I bonded with Galahad,” I said. “Now I’m here, which means he’s out there somewhere dying.”

  “Then we’d best send you back,” Morgana said, her hand on my shoulder. I looked into her blue eyes and she smiled. “How are my girls?”

  “Nim is going to marry Lance,” I told her. “Morgan... She’s finding the loss of her father almost impossible to bear but we’ll get her through it.” I glanced at Lancelot and he looked away, hiding his thoughts from me.

  “And my son?” Morgana asked.

  “A man you can be truly proud of. Strong and noble. A Knight of Camelot to the core of his being and exactly what Albion needs. He is the best of men,” I said truthfully. “It’s been a painful journey for him but he is... He is everything you could want and more.”

  Tears also stood proud in her eyes but did not fall. “Thank you, Holt. I know from my brief meeting with him it could not have been easy for you both.”

  I managed a small smile. “No, it’s not been easy but he is stronger for it, I hope.”

  “And you have suffered too I fear,” she said.

  “It is my duty to protect Galahad, my lady. I gave you my word,” I said, taking her hands and kissing the backs.

  “Are you still willing to do anything for the future of Albion?” she asked. They were not glib words, she was deathly serious.

  “Yes, your Majesty, I am still willing to do anything for the future of Albion,” I agreed.

  “I thought I told you never to make a deal with fey until you heard the details,” Arthur groused.

  I grinned at him and he shook his head in mock frustration at me antics.

  “I have something I need to give you,” Morgana said. She reached behind her neck, under the long hair and unclasped a heavy golden chain. She pulled a pendant from her gown and pooled the chain onto the surface, holding it in her palm.

  When she stepped toward me a feeling of reluctance made me want to move back. I didn’t want the pendant. She reached out and grabbed my wrist in her s
trong grip before my desire to leave became more than a thought.

  “My husband was given this when we faced the god Balar to ensure we could access his miserable home. The Lady gave it to him as her people were his guards. Her aid at that point was bought with the life of my son. This pendant has remained with me and I have learned to harness its gifts.” Morgana’s eyes were very bright and made my skin crawl with the power emanating from their fever.

  “Madam,” I said slowly. “How is this thing here, with you, in this place?” I asked.

  She smiled. “I learned to use death a long time ago.” She glanced at Lancelot, his expression remained grave. “Under Aeddan’s tutelage and my dark desire to conquer, I learned not to fear death, he and I are old friends. If you have the right friends you can make almost anything happen.”

  I held the item in my hand and stepped back. Its weight shocked me and the cold metal made my skin want to escape its presence.

  “I could not refashion it, to do so would be to destroy its connection to The Lady, but you must give it to Galahad at the right time and he will know how to use the foul thing to destroy our enemy.”

  I stared at the strange object, my eyes not quite able to work out the pattern covering the surface under the chain. “How will he know?”

  “He is my son. He will know,” she said.

  “He is vulnerable. I don’t want to use this if it will threaten his mind,” I said.

  Lancelot stepped toward his wife. “There is no choice. We have to stop her using her own magic. Her power is growing daily as is her influence. She is striving to become the soul of our world and that is placing her beyond the gods. He has to be strong enough to endure this or we are all finished.”

  My father stepped to his lover’s side. “I need some time with my son,” he told Lancelot, who nodded. He and Morgana stepped away and Arthur came toward me.

  I braced myself. If news of my many failures has reached his shade...

  “It is so good to see you, son,” Arthur said.