Friday, March 1, 2019

Fiction Friday: Birthed in Blood

So, despite still musing on exactly what kind of writer/blogger I want to be, I decided, for this week at least, to bring back my Fiction Friday tradition. For those new to my little blog, or those who need a refresher because it's been a longass time, Fiction Friday is, well, just that: me posting some fiction I've written, and doing it on a Friday. The posting, not the writing, I mean. Although I suppose the two aren't mutually exclusive...

Anyway, here's the beginning of a story I started working on for NaNoWriMo back in 2015. It's my version of an Arthurian legend story, a bit darker, perhaps, then what we usually get, and sure as hell better than that awful Guy Ritchie movie. I have a whole chart listing all the knights I planned on using for my version of the Knights of the Round Table, how they interact with each other, who hates who, yadda yadda, as well as another section listing family members and villains. I went deep into research mode for this one, folks. So here's the beginnings of what I started writing as the intro to the first book of a potentially four book series. I may be an underachiever, but you can't say I'm an unambitious overachiever, right? It's a bit on the lengthy side, by the way, so just be warned...

Prologue


“Gods-be-damned wizard,” the knight growled furiously as he yanked his sword from where it was buried hilt deep into the fallen foe before him. “If he could ever just once forego the riddles and actually tell me plainly what was about to happen…”
                But then he wouldn’t be a wizard, would he, the knight finished silently with a sigh. He looked at the carnage strewn around him across the battlefield: the mass of bodies, both wounded and dying, sprawled across the grassy earth; the men struggling and staggering, his own knights and the forces of the enemy; the grass and mud run red with blood, the same color that dripped now off his own blade, and sighed again. Reaching around his back with his free hand, the knight grabbed a trailing shred of his tattered cape and pulled it around, using it to wipe his blade as best he could before sliding it into the sheath on his right hip. The crimson of the cape would hide the stain.
                Just how much blood is that cape hiding by now, he wondered to himself? How many people had he killed now, be it through his decisions, his orders, or by him personally, their souls dispatched to the gods by his own hand and his famous or, perhaps, infamous blade? The question gnawed at him, but worse than the fate of those villains he had ordered killed or had killed himself was the fate of all the people who had died for him; because they were protecting him, because they believed in him, because he had ordered them.
                If heavy was the head that wore the crown, it was because it was weighed down by death.
                Arthur Pendragon’s crown was heavy indeed.
                This most recent battle, just one more in a series of bloody affairs in the current ongoing war, weighed on him heavily indeed. Although as he looked around the field it seemed the day was his, he didn’t know how many of his knights, his beloved brothers, had fallen, how many he had left. Too few, he knew, especially given his certainty that the bastard behind it all had slipped away again, meaning another costly battle would soon follow. And rich as she may be, Camelot could ill afford to pay many more costs like this one. If only the wizard had given him more information than a place and time… number of soldiers, support personnel, any logistical information at all. But, as he’d heard time and time again by now, that wasn’t how magic worked.
                “Gods-be-damned wizard,” he swore again, but with less heat and more fatigue this time, “and let them be-damn the magic too while they’re at it.”
                The clash of steel against steel rang out some distance to his left and Arthur’s head whipped around, his left hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. Roughly a hundred paces from him three knights clashed in what was clearly a two against one battle, and from the look of the armor it was obvious the outnumbered party was one of his knights. He began to quickly head toward the battle to give his aid but after only ten paces or so he felt his legs buckle and it was all he could do to make it a few more steps to a large, knee-high gray stone he could throw his weight against to keep himself from falling.
                The cost of the golden dream that was Camelot was indeed weighing heavily on him this day.
                Although he hadn’t moved much closer to the fight, the few steps did give him a better view, and he could now make out the armor design and plumage of his embattled knight. It was Galahad. Arthur sighed again, this time in relief; Galahad, he knew, needed no assistance. He watched as one of the shining jewels of the Round Table fought his two opponents, his footwork and balance so sure and flawless that he almost danced between his opponents as he dodged and parried their attacks, patiently waiting, Arthur knew, for the perfect opening to allow him to switch from defense to offense. He was familiar with Galahad’s technique and strategies; he had tried to best his knight many times in past training sessions to no avail. In truth, though Galahad was by far the youngest of the Knights of the Round Table, it had been years since anyone had been able to say they were his equal with a blade, let alone his better. The only one who could come close was Lancelot…
                “He really is poetry in motion,” a voice commented suddenly from Arthur’s left.
Tired and wounded though he was, the king’s left hand dropped to the hilt of his blade and drew as he turned and took a step back all in one continuous blur of motion. His instincts continued to guide him, his sword lifted up into a guard position as his feet settled him into a defensive stance. It was only once he was ready to ward off an attack that Arthur realized the voice belonged to a man who had simultaneously taken a step back and was holding his hands in the air, a man whose face he well recognized. “Kay,” Arthur breathed, his face visibly relaxing as he once again sheathed his sword. “This is really not a good time and place to sneak up on someone!”
“Apologies, my liege,” Sir Kay Andyr said, smiling innocently. “I thought the King of Camelot could hear a fly take a shit from a mile away.” His smile faded, however, as he saw Arthur once again sag against the stone. He hurriedly stepped to the king’s side. “Are you alright, brother? Are you hurt?” he asked, placing his hand under Arthur’s elbow to help support him. “I knew I was away from your side for too long.”
“Damn it, Kay, I’m not a child,” Arthur snapped. “I can survive just fine on my own for a few minutes without you hovering around me.” He looked at the other knight, saw the streaks of blood covering his armor, and knew that the fighting Kay was involved in was doubtlessly ferocious as he tried to make his way to Arthur’s side; as his bodyguard and brother, that was his place. Arthur knew it, and regretted his words. “I’m unhurt,” he continued evenly before Kay could respond, gently pulling his arm away from his foster brother’s hand as he rested his weight more fully on the stone. “Which is a good sight’s difference from alright. And yes, he is certainly a sight to see,” he added to forestall any further questions from Kay, directing his eyes back towards Galahad. He could feel the other man’s eyes on him, but Kay said nothing, settling in quietly next to Arthur as they watched the duel unfold.
Galahad effortlessly ducked under a slash from one of his opponents that was meant to cleave his head from his shoulders, dropped down to one knee, rammed the hilt of his blade into the unprotected back of his other opponent’s knee, making him drop to his knee as well, where Galahad promptly backhanded him across the face with his gauntlet so hard it knocked the other man’s helmet off. Galahad’s hand then shot back in the other direction, landing a slap across his face that knocked him down; then Galahad sprang across his now prone body to evade a downward slash from the first, still standing opponent, before rising back to his feet and turning to face the man once more from a ready position. He didn’t attack, just waited.
Arthur tilted his head curiously as he watched, and heard a questioning grunt issue from Sir Kay. Why hadn’t Galahad pressed an attack? For that matter, why was the fight still going on? Arthur wasn’t nearly as good as Galahad was in a swordfight of this kind, but he had seen multiple openings now where Galahad could have done away with both men, and was sure Galahad would have seen even more openings. But he had ignored them all. Why?
He heard more sounds around him, armor-clad footsteps, but this time he didn’t jump into action; ostensibly the difference was that this time Kay was there, but the truth was that Arthur feared if he moved off the stone again he might fall. When he didn’t hear Kay reacting with alarm, he looked around and saw that the rest of his knights were gathering around, joining Galahad’s audience, as were the remaining soldiers and squires who fought for and supported them. A further look around showed Arthur that the battlefield was calm. Covered in fallen bodies and slick with blood and guts, yes, but calm. The fighting, save for Galahad and how foes, was over.
The Knights of the Round Table had won.
“What’s the lad doing, do you suppose, my lord?” asked a big bear of man as he rested his giant axe on the ground before him. The axe, Arthur noted, which started the battle a polished silver, was fully coated in deep crimson.
“I’ve been wondering that myself, Tor,” Arthur answered. As they watched, the knight that Galahad had dropped to the ground with his strike to his knee regained his feet in a sudden surge, cutting between Galahad and his second opponent and catching the knight of Camelot with an uppercut strike that sent Galahad’s helmet flying off. The knights around Arthur gasped in surprise and quite a few stepped forward, intending to go help their comrade in arms only to be restrained by their fellow knights. This was Galahad’s fight, they knew, and he wouldn’t want their assistance. And a few of them, Arthur was sure, had noticed as he had that Galahad had leaned into that punch, accepting it when he could have easily leaned away instead. He wanted his helmet to come off.
What was he up to?
Not realizing he had wondered that aloud, he was surprised when Sir Safir, standing a few paces to his right, replied, “I know.” When Arthur looked at him questioningly, Safir merely smiled and nodded back towards the action.
Arthur looked back at Galahad and saw the younger knight glance at him with a smile across his face similar to the one on Safir’s. Galahad then nodded slightly to his king, turned back to his opponents, and attacked.
The change was startling. If Galahad had been, as Kay noted, poetry in motion on the defensive, then on the offensive he was an art perfected to its ideal. He stepped between his two opponents, slashing his sword back and forth, drawing their blades into short, defensive strokes, turning back and forth between them too rapidly for them to go on the attack again. He hit the enemy on his left, the one still wearing his helmet,  a particularly vicious blow that staggered him back a step, letting Galahad square solidly against the opponent on his right. He lifted his sword and swung it down in a vicious overhead chop, not directed at his opponent but at his opponent’s sword, smashing into it so hard it jolted from the overpowered knight’s hand. Galahad followed through on his stroke, burying his blade into the earth solidly so he could lift up on it and kick his legs out behind him to catch the opponent he had staggered as he rushed back in against him solidly in the chest, again knocking that man back a few steps, this time solidly down onto his back. Galahad set his feet solidly under him again at the same moment the knight in front of him reached for his fallen sword; Galahad met his descending arm with a swift upward stroke of his sword that started with him yanking it out of the earth and ended with the enemy knight’s forearm laying on the ground, separated from the knight at the elbow.
The knight screamed in shock as he looked at the blood fountaining from the stump where his forearm used to be, the shock slowly turning into agony until the scream was cut short by a thrust from Galahad up into the knight’s unprotected neck.
Arthur’s gathered knights cheered as Galahad vanquished one of his foes, and then laughed as the other knight regained his feet and ran at Galahad with a primal scream very unbecoming for a knight, his sword extended like a lance that he could use to impale Arthur’s knight. The scream gave Galahad ample warning and he easily sidestepped the charge, forcing the knight to collide with the body of his now deceased comrade, knocking it to the ground.
The reaction of his men to Galahad’s success was what led Arthur to realize what Safir in his wisdom had realized earlier, and he knew why Galahad had been toying with his opponents. He was putting on a show for the men, and Arthur knew why. “Finish it, Galahad,” he called wearily.
Hearing his king’s command, Galahad wasted no more time. He reached out from behind his opponent and wrenched the helmet from the man’s head, pushing him a step further away as he did so. As the man recovered and spun to face him, Galahad spun into a spin of his own, bringing his sword around horizontally so that his spin finished with him facing the unprepared knight as his sword removed his head from his body.
The other knights and their forces applauded Galahad’s display of prowess heartily as he turned to face them. Arthur caught Galahad’s eye with a knowing look and a small nod of gratitude, which the knight returned with a slight bow. Galahad had just done Arthur a great service by prolonging his fight until the rest of the battle was over and the men were assembled. He had reminded them that they were the superior fighting force; that they fought with skill and honor and supported each other, and that they did not lose.
They were the army of Camelot.
They were the Knights of the Round Table. They  were now, and ever would be, victorious.
His bows taken, Galahad began to walk back to his comrades-in-arms. He had taken but a few steps when the ground began to rumble so fiercely that he almost lost his balance completely. He dropped to one knee, reaching his hands to the ground to keep himself stable.
Arthur wasn’t quite as lucky. The rumbling caused the large stone he had been resting on to tip over, and between being exhausted and being caught by surprise he almost tipped over with it. If not for the quick hands of Kay and Tor, who each grabbed one of his arms to steady him, he’d have fallen backward into a very unkingly position.
“What the hell is going on?” Kay growled as Arthur nodded his thanks to them both. The shaking continued, the sound of it growing louder, and it soon became clear that whatever was causing it was in the deep forest off just a short distance to the Camelot assemblage’s right.
And whatever was causing it was clearly growing closer.
Arthur spared an eye towards Galahad and saw him facing the forest, whose trees were now visibly shaking, eyes narrowed. “To arms, men,” the king called, making sure Galahad could hear him. And hoping his prized knight would understand what he wanted. To his relief, Galahad nodded towards him almost imperceptibly.
“Giants!” came a cry from Sir Aglovale, the smallest of Arthur’s knights, who had just regained his feet after being held aloft by his brother Tor so he’d have a better angle in hopes of seeing what was happening. “I can see them moving through the trees. They’re…”
Whatever he was about to say was drowned out by a sudden, deafening roar as a group of easily two score giants broke through the last of the tree cover and screamed battle cries. Each giant was easily twice the height of a man… save Tor, who was already a good head and a half taller than the average man… and each was heavily armed; giant clubs obviously made from great trees, in some cases just uprooted whole, were the favorite, but there were some armed with great-axes and swords that looked like daggers in their massive hands.
“Bloody piss, shit, and rot,” Kay swore next to Arthur, gripping his drawn sword anxiously in his hands. “The bloody bastard kept giants in reserve as a surprise.” He then looked askance at Arthur, realizing that perhaps he might have misspoken. 
Tor smacked the edge of his axe against his open palm. “How kind of him,” he said, sparing Arthur the need to respond to Kay.
For his part, the king looked over at Galahad and nodded. Galahad, the man who had just bested two foes without letting a touch land in return save one he meant to land; Galahad, who was still a ways separated from the rest of the knights and thus had no back up, drew his sword again and charged at the giants. If that didn’t galvanize the tired warriors of Camelot, Arthur didn’t know what would.
Except maybe one thing.
He gripped the hilt of his sword in his left hand and quickly drew the blade. The sound it made leaving the scabbard rang out across the battlefield.
Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, had drawn Excalibur.
He raised it above his head and, with all the breath and strength he could muster, bellowed, “For Camelot!” and then charged towards the oncoming horde of giants.
As one, the Knights of the Round Table echoed his battle cry and followed their king into battle.
And under his breath, so softly that not another soul could hear, Arthur swore viciously, “Gods-be-damned wizard!”



Chapter One


                It did all start with a wizard, but if you asked him he’d probably take issue with the accusation of being “gods-be-damned.”
                In his more honest days, though, he’d doubtlessly agree.
                Merlin Ambrosius was his name, and had been for a very long time. By the time he was as damned as Arthur Pendragon constantly accused him of being, he had long since dropped the Ambrosius, preferring to go about simply as Merlin, or, when the need struck him, one of a few other select aliases.


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