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.
