Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy (29 page)

“How did our foes fare, O’Donnell?” Mordred inquired.

“Our… foes, Sire? They were wiped out and put to death, Sire…” O’Donnell groped for the meaning to his master’s words. Mordred looked exasperated. Of course he knew the rank and file soldiers were slain to a man.

“The
knights
, man! What about the whore-son knights? Where are they? What were their names? Do the heralds not know?” Mordred slammed his mighty mailed fist onto his thigh plate. Metal clanged in the quiet air of the battlefield. O’Donnell cowered before his king. His rages were terrible, and it was not unknown for Mordred to slay men who gave him news he did not wish to hear. He girded his loins and spoke with as much bravery as he could.

“My liege, beg your pardon. The noble enemy dead are as follows. Derrick of Liverpool, slain by Erandur. Henry of Kendal, slain by Erandur. Owen of Nottingham, slain by…” Mordred cut him off with a bellow.

“Gods, enough about Erandur! He is
dead
.”

“Yes, yes, Sire. My apologies. That was… the last knight slain by the… Dark Elves’ king, as I was saying. Richard of Dumnonia, slain by Mordred, King of England.” O’Donnell finished, and rolled up his parchment.

“That’s it? What about the others? The other knights? There were six in total. Eight, including the two that held Kendal, yes? While I think of it, why haven’t we found this thrice-cursed Dragon Knight who slew the drow king?” Mordred spat his words out in a rage, and O’Donnell took two quick steps backward.

“There
were
no other bodies found, Sire. I must confess I thought I saw more knights than we found bodies for. What do you suppose happened to them?”

Mordred scowled. He had the feeling that O’Donnell was mocking him. No matter. He would most likely die in the coming campaign, in any case. Soon he would be seated on the throne at Camelot, with a court of wise men to give him counsel, and he would have no more need for a halfwit sergeant like this man. He spoke to his sergeant no more, and rode away on his horse, toward where the motley colors of his army were being reformed into ranks, ready to march. There were still several thousands of his men, some borrowed, some mercenary, some allied forces though they may be. If Arthur could only send children dressed as knights and five hundred spearmen to bring him to task, the journey south would be simplicity itself. He rode to the head of the army and addressed them. There was a smattering of cheers at his appearance from the Company of the King, but the Picts, Celts, Vikings and dark elves regarded him with near indifference.

“My friends, the spine of Arthur’s army is broken! We ride south! South, to Camelot, and glory!”

***

The knights that Mordred had misplaced would not appear anywhere on the battle field. Nor would they appear anywhere in the north of England, nor in the south. John of Leeds had been about to be struck down by one of the five Vikings surrounding him, when in a trice he had disappeared completely, armor and all. The Vikings had looked at each other in fear at such witchcraft, and decided not to speak of it. Gawain of Sheffield had bravely slain a dozen Celts, ridden his charger away from battle to pick up a lance that was sticking out of the ground at just the right angle, and similarly vanished. There were no eyes watching him, however. As for Thomas of Manchester, he had been in the thickest of the fighting when all combatants near him went temporarily blind. When they recovered their sight, it was as if each man had been staring too long at the sun; the golden haired knight they had been fighting was simply gone.

The knights themselves awoke in a white place. There appeared to be no ground, no sky, and nothing to see. Their armor was still with them, and Thomas, John and Gawain could see each other. Save for that small mercy, there was nothing. The noble warriors looked at each other with trepidation, and immediately set about trying to understand what had happened to them.

Chapter Eight

Avalon

Far from the trials that beset the land to the far north, Avalon lay shrouded in morning mists. No danger had ever befallen this benighted isle, and it seemed unlikely to Erasmus that it ever would. The magic of the land was, so it was said, completely impenetrable. Despite his safety, and also despite the preservative qualities of Avalon that allowed men to live far greater spans of life than would be possible anywhere else, Erasmus felt fearful, and tired.

No word had come back from the Sons of the Round Table for some weeks, although there had been rumors at market passed on by someone who had spoken to someone who knew a sailor.
Faugh,
he thought. There could be an army on the doorstep of Avalon and they could never find it, but that made the people indifferent and prone to gossip. He was walking along the shore of the mainland, having made the short row across the lake. With Rhys away at the war against the fiend Mordred, there seemed little and less for him to do. A few days had passed since the arrival of the Thirteenth Glastenning, and while all Avalon had turned out to welcome Glynnis, Aelwyd and Cadwynn, Erasmus took no pleasure in the parade, the welcome feasts, the ceremony. He had sat glumly through the formal acceptance of the three nervous looking girls by Morgan le Fae, the transfer of the protection of Avalon, and such niceties.

Erasmus could not rest, could not enjoy himself. He found himself stalking the corridors of the castle at night, unable to sleep. Rhys was never far from his heart.

“Damn it boy, why don’t you send word?” he would mutter, over and over. Almost without noticing, he found that he had wandered to the pool where Rhys’ love, Naida, was to leave her messages for him. The pool was lush as always, imbued – as it no doubt was – with faerie magic. Birdsong filled the air, and a sense of relaxation came over him that was not of his own heart’s doing. The whys and wherefores of how the faefolk played with the emotions of men was quite beyond him, but for the first time in what felt like the hundred years since Rhys had sallied north, Erasmus felt the weight lift from his shoulders.

“Thank you, whoever you are,” he said. It was undoubtedly a muse or a nymph casting a spell upon him, and he was glad. His eyes felt heavy, and the weariness in his bones seemed lightened; he had been so tired of late that even the state of fatigue had kept him awake, night after night. Partly, he knew, it was the strain of his warrior’s heart not being involved in the war against Mordred. Partly, it was something else. He felt a failure. He had sworn to send messages between Naida and Rhys, but with no messages appearing at the tree by this very pool, what could he do?

In the absence of any answers from the quiet pool, Erasmus gave in to the tiredness, lay down by the still, clear waters, and was asleep in moments. He awoke in a place that was entirely unfamiliar. Erasmus was sure that he was not dreaming, as dreams did not have such alertness. He felt awake, energized again, as if the woes of his life belonged to someone else. A practical man, he had not usually put much faith in the soothsayers who would interpret your dreams for a penny; for Erasmus, dreams meant nothing, or everything. If a dream was a portent of the future, one would soon know about it.

The place where he awoke was a realm of golden whiteness, and for a moment, he considered the possibility he might be dead. In the minstrel tales, this surely is what the poetic souls spoke about. It seemed like a place where one could happily wait out existence, or non-existence, as the case may be, for an eternity. There were three figures, seemingly far away. Erasmus tried calling to them, but they didn’t appear to hear him at all. He found it difficult to make out their shapes, as if they were being viewed through a heavy veil.

“Erasmus of Avalon, hail and well met,” a feminine voice purred, and the voice seemed to bring echoes of whispered repetition.

“Who said that?” Erasmus said. “Show yourself to me. I am no danger to you!” The voice had apparently come from thin air. Now it giggled girlishly. “No, you are no danger to me, but you are in danger, Erasmus of Avalon. Alarum! Alarum!”

“Danger? What danger? Where am I?” Erasmus turned about, looking for who he was speaking to. “You are safe, Erasmus of Avalon,” the voice said.

“Safe now? Pray, make up your mind! Am I in danger, or am I safe?”

“Safe here, yes, safe here,” the voice whispered, close enough to be right behind his ear. “But Avalon is in mortal peril. Alarum, Erasmus. The Sons are undone! Alarum! Mordred is come!”

“The Sons! Rhys!” Erasmus exclaimed. “Tell me, creature, sprite, fae or devil though thou may be; what transpires?”

The voice ignored him. “Raise the banners of Avalon, Erasmus! She has slept too long! Raise the banners, ride for Camelot, Mordred is come, the Sons are undone!”

Erasmus was about to reply, but instead he awoke at the pool, returned to the human realm once again. “Damn, damn you all to hellfire!” he shouted to no one. He was alone, but it felt a little better to vent his frustrations. He stomped away from the idyll, headed back to the boat. He had some tough words to find, and a Glastenning Sisterhood; nay,
two
Glastennings, to convince to take up arms in war.

***

Kenilwurt, Worwick’s Shire, England.

“It has begun, Lady Mother,” Mucuruna said softly as her mother-in-law entered the parlor and took a seat by the roaring fire.

“I know this well, child,” she replied without taking her eyes from the flames. “I also know that your daughters are safe but are nonetheless marching toward the battlefield at Camelot with Morgana, Morgause and Elaine. Erasmus, as well.”

“Irelli!” Mucuruna exclaimed as she fell to her knees beside the older woman’s chair. “Will they be alright? What of Rhys? Have you seen him? Is he alive?”

“Many of the boys perished at Kendal, my daughter, but Rhys was not one of them. Even now, Lady Nottingham is opening up her home to the mothers and relatives of the fallen boys. We should ride north to her assistance; she needs our help more than we know.”

“I don’t want to leave Worwick’s Shire,” she replied.

“Oh, but you will, my dear,” came a deep voice from the doorway behind them.

Both women turned to see Gwallawc and Anlawdd stepping into the room.

“In times of war, even more so than in times of peace, the families of England must bond together and support each other. Lady Nottingham has nothing left now, but hopes that her husband will return from his campaigns overseas. Even those hopes are slight since if he returns now, there may still be many battles to fight and she could still yet lose him in one of them.”

At that moment Anlawdd spoke up. “I have prepared a train of supplies to reinforce our lady’s chattel. There are to be no arguments from you two. Be ready to ride to Nottingham at daybreak. I will consult with her brother, Lord Grantham, while you offer assistance and condolences to the lady at the loss of her only son. Gwallawc will stay here to mind the estate and keep the news moving. He will rally the bannermen, should Worwick’s Shire be called to arms for Arthur.”

“Yes, sir,” was the unanimous reply.

Chapter Nine

Cumbria, England.

He felt kisses on his face; wet, slobbering and with breath that stank of animal. His head felt split by thunder, and yet he was quite sure he had not died. Through his eyelids he saw the pink glow of sunlight, and felt a light breeze over his skin. Surely, if he was dead, he could not feel such a sweet breeze? Rhys opened his eyes a crack, wincing as light filled him, paining him as if he had imbibed too much mead. Rhys looked up into the muzzle of Broderick. The horse had his lips to his cheek, and was smacking soft whickering noises in his ear. Groggily, Rhys put a hand up to touch his horse; his savior no doubt.

“I am glad to see you, friend. Now, where have you run me off to this time?” he said softly. Rhys raised his head and body, rolling over in the grass to better facilitate his movements. He was still wearing his armor and felt greatly fatigued, so his movements came at a large price of energy and grunted effort. Eventually, he flopped over in a clatter of dented steel. Rhys first thought that he had somehow been transported to the glade where he had first encountered his lady, Naida of Eon. The sensation was so strong, he nearly called out her name, but he caught himself. He did not know where he was, but he did know that there had been a battle and that his army had lost. That meant the land around him may well be crawling with Mordred’s soldiers, hunting him down. Then he remembered Richard, and Owen of Nottingham. Mercy; that they had died and he had lived, felt so unfair. Rhys wept, and was still weeping when he heard a voice that was at once thunderous and gentle.

“Weep ye not, Rhys of Gascogne. You know that there are other worlds than this, and death is but another part of the wheels we call life,” the voice said. Rhys leapt to his feet, fatigue forgotten, clutching for his sword. He remembered then that he had lost it in the battle, and made to use his heavy steel gauntlets as weapons instead. He lowered them only a little, when he saw who was speaking.

“Merlin,” he said flatly, “I have little care for your sorcerer’s ways this day.” The wizard was dressed as he was the morning of the battle when he had appeared to Rhys at the campsite.