The Knight (17 page)

Chapter Two

Ayr, Ayrshire, Scotland

The frozen air from the mountains blew through the castle.

‘Castle’ was perhaps too kind a word for the blackened, ruined battlements of the fort at Ayr. Mordred stamped his feet, and ordered more wood to be placed on the fires. Dawn was breaking over Scotland through mist and fog, barely bringing enough light to let the few birds remaining in the trees know that it was indeed time to wake and sing. When they did, though, their songs were mournful. Their songs echoed the hearts of the peasants, displaced and scared away when Mordred took the lands.

Mordred, natural born son of Arthur and rightful heir to the throne of all lands north and south, was for once in a hale and hearty mood. The preparations for war were going well, the Sons of the Round Table had been stymied at every turn, and his own force was swollen with the wild Pictmen, Celt clans and Viking mercenaries. He had invited their leaders to break their fast together, on coarse brown bread, thick cuts of salted pork belly and black beer, but was interrupted in his meal by the appearance of his servant, Donal.

“My liege,” Donal stammered. “
It
is here, and craves an audience with Your Majesty.”

It
had always un-nerved Donal. The shrew-like serf had attended on Mordred for a decade, and had blankly witnessed many terrible things committed by Mordred and his forces in the name of his quest for retribution and revenge. Only Anebos had ever installed fear in him. Whether Donal was numb to mortal terrors or simply superstitious and afraid of faefolk, Mordred never asked. He put his trencher down, sourly regarding the uneaten meat. Ragnar Lodbrok, leader of the Viking warriors, regarded his employer with surprise. It must be a mighty thing indeed to draw a future king away from his meal. The Pict chieftains did not raise their faces from their meals, slavering and gobbling like the pigs that had provided their morning meat. Mordred stalked away with long strides, closing the heavy oaken door of his quarters behind him. The fire in the hearth was low, and his breath condensed on the preternatural chill of the air. The cambion stood in front of the fire, barely a shadow, almost impossible to see, save from the corner of Mordred’s eye. To look at it directly was to see a skittering nothingness and to sense impending death from hidden attackers that were surely right behind your shoulder. Mordred despised the undead thing, this Wight of the ages. Why had he been sent this creature? No doubt it had proven itself to be a spy and assassin of some great power, but Mordred felt like he was being maneuvered. Manipulated.

“What do you disturb my breakfast for, ghoul? Come to tell me more tales from your master? I grow weary of waiting on Lord Oberon’s commands.” Mordred drew himself up to his full height and regal bearing. The cambion hissed softly to itself, and brought itself into better view. Its shadowy form thickened, blotted out more of the fire behind it, but still fell short of full opacity. Mordred could at least see the dead thing’s face, red-eyed and wan-skinned, pointy-eared and long of tooth.

“Ssssoooo, Lord Mordred, he who would be king,” Anebos spoke with a false sweetness. “You would do well to remember that I am not your subject, and you are not my king. Even more so, you would do well to thank those who do you favor, and quickly, before they make you beg on your knees.”

Mordred scoffed. “I fear you not, demon. I am the son of the greatest warrior of our age, blessed by birth and of pure blood. My father’s blood courses through my veins as does the blood of Uther, my grandfather. Twice over, in fact!” Mordred gave an evil chuckle at his last comment. Anebos snickered mockingly.

“Oh, you laugh? Arthur may be my sworn enemy, but he
is
a great warrior. Only a fool would deny the power of the blood of kings. I command you again, what brings you here? What message does Oberon send?” Mordred drew his short sword from the scabbard, and pointed the black iron blade at Anebos’ throat. “Speak! Quickly! I command it!”

Anebos cowered. The cambion could not stand against the power of Mordred, despite its bluster. “As you wish, my Lord Mordred, I meant no offense. My master Oberon tells me your preparations are close to their end. Your army is ready?”

Mordred smiled mirthlessly and beckoned Anebos to the balcony. Mordred pulled back the heavy curtain that had been hung to preserve the heat of the fire. The flames in the hearth lunged at the draught of air, licking around and through Anebos. The cambion did not seem to notice, and stepped forward to join Mordred. Outside, as far as the eye could see from east to west, there were crude tents, horses, covered wagons and men. Flags and banners hung lazily at the top of their poles, and an ill wind blew. Mist rolled before it, sloughing over the army. Spear tips broke the higher fog like reeds in a vast gray lake.

“Impressssive,” hissed the cambion. “How many mortals do you have here?” The inflection Anebos put on the word
mortals
caused Mordred to curl his lip.

“I have five thousand men, with several hundred Viking reapers still off the coast aboard ship; warriors all of them; Picts, Celts, men of Northumbria who recognize their true fealty. What of these Sons of Camelot? How fares their muster?”

Anebos laughed a cackling low rattle. “Not half your numbers, less than even that if you move quickly, Lord Mordred. It is why I am bid to come to you now. The Sons aim for Keswick to rally their banners, but they are not one force yet. My Lord Oberon has seen that two of their number are at Kendal, lightly defended and not yet ready to march. Five hundred spears are all that they have.”

“Your Lord Oberon is very forthcoming with his spry intelligence, Wight. Pray, what does your master hope to gain by aiding me in my war against my father? Surely the Unseelie Court has no great interest in the wars of men. Tell me, Wight. What price must I pay for the aid of Arcadia?” Mordred said, and he glowered with suspicious malevolence. His heavy brow furrowed, and he slung back the heavy curtain. The fire fanned once more, and started to sputter under the dark stone. Anebos slunk back toward the dying embers. The creature seemed to like the warmth despite his ghastly pallor, or perhaps because of it.

“My Lord Oberon trusts that you will be more… favorable to his wishes than your father has been,” Anebos said. “Arthur dislikes faefolk, would have humankind forget about us, in favor of his master, the one they call Christ. What good are dead gods? Better to have allies who can talk back to you, who can grant you favors, yes?”

“Watch your tongue, serpent!” Mordred swiped at the wraith with a hand, but it passed right through his body. Anebos just smiled. “My father has numbered days, but our God is
the
God. I will not tolerate your blasphemy. The Vikings pray to gods they say are the lightning, or the snake that encircles the sea, or the mountains themselves. I care not for their gods; or they for mine, but we understand that to curse the faith of our allies is death. You would do well to find the same wisdom.”

“Nevertheless, Mordred-who-would-be-king, you need the aid of my master Oberon. You need
us,
just as much—nay, even more so—than you need the help of the barbarian hordes below your window. Without us, the Sons would be in your bower even now, and would have brought you to task.” The Cambion moved his hands this way and that as he spoke, as if he were casting new spells on Mordred. The son of Arthur dismissed him with a laugh of his own.

“Your aid is important, but not essential. You expedite my claim, but my victory is inevitable. Arthur’s quest for just causes and noble goals is his undoing. See here.” Mordred gestured to the map of England on his table, pointing with his still drawn sword. “In the isles to the north, Sir Gawain and Sir Aelfric are waylaid in a futile attempt to defend the Abbess and her nuns from Ragnar Lodbrok’s men. In the south, Arthur himself and the thrice-cursed Lancelot are across the sea engaged with the Romans, who themselves are fighting the Gauls and the Goths. Neither party can turn their backs on their work in an effort to face me for fear that their gizzards will be split by knives in the dark.”

Anebos regarded the map with little interest. It had been crafted from fine material, embroidered with gold and pictures finely stitched showing dragons, sea monsters and the notable towns. The Cambion needed no maps to find his way; fire and blood and shadows made secret paths for him, took him anywhere he wished.

“So why, my Lord, did we spend the lives of Erandur’s goblin riders so cheaply? If your forces are so well massed, so indomitable, why not let the Sons of The Round Table merely march into your waiting army? Why have I been spying on this child archer?”

Mordred said nothing, but turned his back on the undead creature. His cloak rippled over his shoulders, a wave of black scale and ermine. Mordred felt no compulsion to tell Anebos the intricacies of harassment and tactics. The foul beast was a useful tool, but no more, and his loyalties did not lie with his aims, but with those of Oberon. It would not do well to share too much information with it. Instead, Mordred again turned to the map and smiled.

“Erandur, yes. He will do nicely. Kendal is three days’ ride from where he was last camped, yes? Send him, and as many creatures that are under his command. Attack Kendal. Slay its defenders. Bring me the heads of the Sons who man the battlements. Tell him to preserve the lives of the peasants, villains and serfs, but slay all noblemen of fighting age. Understand?” Mordred finally sheathed his long sword, flourishing the blade slightly. Anebos bowed.

“It shall be done, Lord Mordred. I question, though. Why spare the minions? They are worthless lives, tilling the soil. Why not butcher them all, to show your might?” This question Mordred did not mind disclosing some of his thoughts upon. He shook his head at Anebos.

“Creature, you who are not living would never be able to understand it. The chattels are not my enemies. They care not that one king wars against another, nor even that faerie and devils walk the lands. So long as they are left alone, as much as can be expected, they will be happy. In any case, if I slaughter every villager between here and Camelot, it will be a mean country that I rule. Who will tend the livestock and grow the vegetable and grain we eat? No, I will not sack the land. Your Lord Oberon aids me for his own mysterious reasons, and he knows that I accept his aid to preserve the life of my subjects. For so long as Oberon heeds that these lands are
mine,
these people are
mine,
then we have an accord. If any of your faefolk, ghouls, elves, monsters or goblins forget this, then Faerie King or nay, he shall be slain by my own hand with a hammer blow to make all witches tremble on their brooms.”

Mordred stalked from the room, leaving the Cambion behind, slamming the heavy door behind him. His exchanges with the undead creature always put him into a foul mood. Mordred disliked witchcraft, despite the circumstances of his own birth. The morning meal had been cleared away, save for his own cooling plate and goblet. Lodbrok and the clan chieftains were lounging back in the ornate chairs at the table, and sat up a little straighter at Mordred’s approach.

“Yarl Lodbrok,” Mordred said, “I have a task for you. The town of Kendal is to be attacked three nights hence by our allies. Send your fastest riders to support them. Report back to me with full haste, I wish to know all that transpires.”

The burly Viking stood and clenched a fist on his muscle bound, iron-strong chest. “I shall go myself, King Mordred. Which allies do you speak of? I thought we were all here, camped with these savage clans.”

The Pict translated the Viking’s joke to his fellows, and the chieftains boomed their laughter around the hall. They fell silent when Mordred replied, “Devils, demons and the fires of hell. Those are our allies this day, Yarl Lodbrok. See that you are careful not to get burned.”

Earth

Just then, a wild wind rustled the tree tops loudly. Naida put her finger to her lips in a signal for Rhys to be quiet. He looked at her questioningly but said nothing. The wind quieted and then a clear giggle could be heard on the breeze. The sound rang true like the ringing of a silver bell.

“Minerva!” Naida said firmly. “Is that you?”

“It is I,” a voice replied, but no one could be seen.

“Show yourself to us, you nasty eavesdropper!” Naida was genuinely upset at her friend. “Faery should really seek to show a better display of manners than that.” She hurriedly let go of Rhys’ hands and stood up.

The wind picked up the pace again and suddenly, a gust blew a large amount of leaves into the clearing. As the leaves were carried by the wind, they started to form a whirlwind which tunneled upward until it reached a man’s height. Rhys was awestruck; he sat watching the spectacle with his jaw dropped.

“Close your mouth, Rhys,” Naida commanded. “It is just Minerva. She is not just listening in on conversations today; apparently she is also showing off.”

The leaves soon gathered into a neat column and then took the form of a beautiful green woman.

“Rhys, this is the image of my dear friend, Minerva. I spoke of her earlier.”

Rhys got to his feet and made a bow to the leafy lady. She curtsied back politely.

“How do you do, my lady?” he asked.

“How do you do, kind sir?” Minerva replied tentatively. She was unsure if he would be able to hear her in her verdant state.