Ruins of Camelot (4 page)

"A monster in the guise of a saviour," Yazim replied.  "He was the downfall of Camelot and the usher of a long, dark age.  According to the legends, he was handsome.  Tall.  Charming.  But so cruel that his friends dreaded his disfavour and his enemies would kill themselves rather than face him."

"Surely, the tales are exaggerated," Thomas commented, picking his way into the deep shadows of the ruin.  Rows of stone benches lay buried in the brush, facing the remains of a collapsed tower.  Yazim stood there, peering down at a half-buried shape.  Morning sunlight glinted off a smooth, tarnished surface.  Thomas saw that it was a bell.

Yazim lifted his eyes and gazed up past the remains of rafters and the encroaching trees.  The shadow of the nearby castle spread over the rubble.  "The tales are actually very detailed," he said.  "Merodach surrounded himself with a small band of soulless villains.  Bloodthirsty and inhuman, these were his hands and feet, sent off amongst the populace to recruit the desperate, the dregs, and the haters, for every society, no matter how enlightened, cultivates such people.  In time, thanks to the complacence of the King, Merodach assembled a small secret army.  These, he employed to begin ravaging the distant outposts of Camelot.  His tactics were simple and horrible.  A small band of marauders would descend upon a village under cover of darkness and dismember every firstborn child where they slept, leaving the horrors for the adults to find upon waking.  In the morning, Merodach would enter the village with his force behind him, summoned by the wails of the mourning parents.  He would call forth the men of the village and offer them a bargain: join him and fight to overthrow the King of Camelot or die and join their children in the afterlife."

Thomas looked at his friend with revulsion.  "Truly, such a beast could not be counted amongst the brotherhood of humankind.  Who would join the man who had murdered their children?"

"Some did," Yazim answered stoically, "out of fear for their lives and that of their women.  Others submitted to death at the hand of Merodach's brutes or fell upon their own swords.  A few fought, but Merodach was a connoisseur of sadism.  He knew that those who fought to avenge their dead children would fight recklessly, blind with grief.  These, he made examples of, desecrating their bodies in ways more horrible than I wish to recount.

"Soon, rumours of Merodach's elaborate cruelty began to spread over the Kingdom.  To many, the stories were indeed too horrific to be believed.  Many doubted, only to discover the truth too late.

"Eventually, the reality of the situation became evident even to the King himself.  But by then, Merodach's army had already overwhelmed and decimated the outlying regions.  He had fortified his forces in key outposts all around the Kingdom.  It was a rude awakening for the King, but even then, he could not bring himself to believe that all was lost.  Camelot simply could not fall.  He sent diplomats and ambassadors, attempting to negotiate with his enemy.  He failed to understand that there is no diplomacy with he whose only desire is to destroy.  There is no compromise with the one whose only goal is death."

Thomas shook his head sombrely.  It was chilly in the shadows of the ruin.  Together, the two men made their way out into the sunlight of the hillside.  Some distance away, their horses cropped the grass amiably.

Thomas sighed.  "So, in the end, cruelty won."

Yazim frowned thoughtfully.  "Cruelty never really wins no matter how things might seem to those observing.  If there is any truth in the world, my friend, then it is that."

Thomas looked aside at his companion and then shook his head.  "I wish I could believe that."

Yazim didn't offer any debate.  After a minute, the two walked down the hill and collected their horses.

Once they were astride their mounts again, heading into the shadow of the derelict castle, Thomas asked, "So what became of Princess Gabriella?  What did she do whilst the beast Merodach was planning his war against her father's kingdom?"

Yazim urged his horse forwards into the tree-lined grotto.  Its hooves splashed across the brook, wetting its smooth flank.  "Princess Gabriella did what all little girls do, God willing," Yazim answered simply, "she grew up."

The dueling theatre was very small and dark, located in the cellar of the school cathedral.  Gabriella had loved it from the first time she'd ever seen it, ten years earlier, at the age of eight.  Back then, it had seemed huge and regal, like something the gladiators of Rome might have fought in.  Now she saw it for what it was: a small, oval floor surrounded by four rows of terraced seating, lit only by a ring of tiny, barred windows.  The ceiling was rough beams and planks, covered in soot and decades of cobwebs.

The topmost row of seating, where she herself now sat, was within reach of the nearest rafters, and it showed: the ancient wood was etched with hundreds of names, crude drawings, symbols, and anatomically impossible limericks.  Her name was there as well, carved with a dagger point some years past.  She remembered doing it, remembered pinching her tongue between her lips with concentration, laboriously shaping each letter: "GABRIELLA G. XAVIER."  Since then, some amusing wag had added "DROWNS IN THE RAIN."  Gabriella didn't mind.  She
had
occasionally been a stuck-up brat in her younger years.  If it had not been for the refreshingly brutal honesty of her fellow students, her nose might still be in the air today.

"I'm sweating like a pig under all this armour," Rhyss muttered, tying her red hair back into a ponytail.  She clanked faintly whenever she moved, a constant reminder that hers was ill-fitting hand-me-down armour worn by at least two generations of graduates before her.  Even so, it gleamed pristinely in the dimness, made of rolled steel and edged with copper.  The Feorie family crest shined brightly on the round shield where it leant by Rhyss's feet. 

Gabriella sighed.  "I cannot wait for this to be over.  I'll be happy to live a thousand years and never lift a sword again."

Rhyss shrugged.  “It’s the price of privilege.  The peasants never have to experience the battle floor.  How very fortunate we are to be the sons and daughters of nobility.  All except for Darrick, of course.”

On Gabriella's other side, Darrick buffed his own sword with a thick cloth.  "I’ll take a blacksmith father over a lazy old duke any day.
”  He said dismissively.  At one time, Gabriella had wondered why Darrick was allowed to attend the Royal Academy at all.  Now she understood:  his family had just enough money, and just enough clout to place him there.  More importantly, his father had just enough imagination to hope for a better life for his son.
 
Darrick sheathed his sword and nudged Rhyss.  “
So who do you face?"

"Vasser," Rhyss replied with a shrug.  "I'm not exactly worried about it."

"Vasser's no daisy," Gabriella said.  "He is good enough to let you show your skills but not so good that he'll put you down before you draw your own sword."  She frowned down at the slip of parchment in her hand and sighed darkly.  "Not like
Goethe
."

Darrick and Rhyss murmured sympathetically.

On the floor below, Constance and a taller girl named Destra approached each other warily.  Constance's armour was new but sparse, made mostly of hardened leather.  Her short sword and shield were the only metal on her.  Destra, whose father was Percival, the chief of the palace guard, was clad in a mismatched but intimidating assembly of mail and iron plate.  She smiled confidently, hefting a small, evil-looking war hammer.

"One-minute rounds, students," rang the voice of Professor Barth, the Battle Master.  "Remember, this is not a contest of strength, nor is it a battle to the death.  No one's honour is at stake on this floor today.  The goal of this final exam is to prove your grasp of fundamental battle technique.  Your only enemy is yourself."

Having spoken, Barth strode to meet Constance and Destra in the centre of the floor.  He briefly inspected their weapons, nodded, and returned to his bench near the door.  He sat, crossed his huge, bare arms over his chest, and nodded again.

"Begin!" he barked.

Destra lunged first, trying to hook Constance's shield with her war hammer.  Constance dodged reflexively, turned, and batted the flat of her sword against Destra's mail-covered shoulder.

"Point," Barth called.

More warily this time, Destra began to circle Constance.  Apparently feeling a bit more confident now, Constance lifted her shield and jabbed beneath it.  Destra anticipated the maneuver however.  She twisted away from Constance's sword and swept her war hammer forwards, low and quick.  With a deft jerk, Destra hooked Constance's heel and swept it out from under her.  The leather-clad girl went down backwards and dropped her shield.

"Point and fault," Barth shouted, pointing first at Destra, and then at Constance where she lay on the floor.  Gabriella felt sorry for her friend as she collected her shield, but it really had been a clumsy maneuver.  If only she, Gabriella, had drawn Destra's name from the lot, she'd have felt confident of her chances to defeat the taller girl soundly if magnanimously.  She liked Destra after all, even if she was a bit mean-spirited sometimes.

The duel went on for another half minute until Barth struck a small iron bell.  When it was over, Constance was awarded three points and one fault, Destra four points and two faults, passing marks for both girls.  In reality, except in cases of gross error or injury, every student passed the final battle practical.  It wasn't so much graduation that was at stake, but reputation.  For many noble families, this duel, even more than the graduation ceremony itself, marked the transition into adulthood.  All around the theatre, students watched the proceedings with grim eyes.  They might pretend that the outcome didn't matter, but in their hearts, they knew differently.  Gabriella saw it on the faces of her classmates, even Rhyss.  The only one who seemed completely unfazed by the duel was Darrick.

"She did well," he commented, nodding towards Constance as she exited the battle floor.  "Considering."

"Considering she spent more time studying her reflection in her shield than practising with it?" Rhyss said, raising one eyebrow.  "I'm sure you're right."

"I wish we could just skip over this part," Gabriella moaned.  "I thought I'd be excited about it, but now I feel like I'm going to be sick."

Darrick nudged her gently.  "You'll do fine, Bree.  There's nothing to worry about."

"Nothing except the fact that Goethe's father is in the castle dungeon for murder," Rhyss nodded.  "And that he weighs twice as much as you and practises throwing battle-axes for fun."

"That's very encouraging," Gabriella said, sinking low in her armour.  "Thanks, Rhyss."

"I cannot help being truthful," Rhyss replied brightly.  "I already told you: if I were in your boots, I'd sneak out through the servants' entrance and hang my armour over the castle hearth once and for all."

Gabriella sighed harshly as the next duel began on the floor below.  "Darrick, you've fought Goethe before.  What should I do?  Does he have any weaknesses?"

Darrick shrugged and sheathed his sword.  "He's big."

Gabriella rolled her eyes.  "I
know
that much," she muttered.  "I have eyes."