The Knight (24 page)

Chapter Eleven

Cumbria, England

Since the first day they had met at the Everlasting Pool, Naida had dreamed of this day.

Despite the fell times, and the prospect of ruin for everything she knew, to have Rhys in her arms was almost worth it. They had lain for some time together, staring into each other’s eyes, violet meeting green. “Rhys, you are a grown man now, I believe,” she joked with him, stroking the dark hair growing on his throat. “I fear that I haven’t changed, not one bit, so sad that I am not mortal like you, my love.”

Rhys took her hand, and standing up he pulled her to her feet. He was so tall that when he pulled her close, her head fell neatly on his well-muscled chest. “I fear that you tell a lie, Naida, though you know it not. Your tale of the fate of Minerva and her sacrifice would change any being, faery or mortal. I see it in you now, the pain you bear. And now we must put an end to this. Take me to Rinnah, so that I may do what needs be done.”

Naida looked up at her destined love with fresh tears in her eyes, and confusion set upon her. “But Rhys, I know not where she is! I swear, I had looked from one end of the land to the other, every copse of trees I have looked o’er, and naught!” She felt her lip tremble at the realization that she had failed Minerva, which had cost her friend her life, and now also failed Rhys, the
Nestaron,
or so she had believed. He could not become the
Nestaron,
The Dragon Prince of prophecy, without defeating Rinnah in her challenge. Finding Rinnah had been
her
job. Naida fell to her knees, but Rhys caught her and pulled her up. Her knees were weak, but he carried her weight easily.

“Nay, my lady. Soft now. You know where Rinnah is, but you could not find her with your heart seeking me instead. Now, you have me, always. Whether we die this day or a thousand years from now, I pledge myself to thee.” Rhys lay a kiss on her lips, and the fire of her magical love flowed in Naida’s veins. She pulled away, confused.

“How can you know this?” she whispered, looking up into Rhys’ face. His eyes burned with a strange intensity that she had not seen before, and he felt strong, even dangerous now with his determination.

“I… don’t know, Naida. It feels like a dream, or a memory of something that I don’t recall ever having experienced. Does that make sense?”

Being faekind, it made perfect sense to Naida; there could be only one answer. “Queen Mab has sent you muses, shaping your dreams to show you your path. Woe that I cannot hear the same whispers. Mab, Queen of Eon, show me what I must do!”

Rhys laughed. “When I don’t know where I am going, I either let Broderick decide, or trust my instinct. Where would you think Rinnah would hide? Your people are fond of poetics and myths; I mean you, practically
are myths.
”

Naida considered for a moment. She knew! Of course she knew. The only possible location for the Eternal Branch would have to be at the poetically appropriate place; it was so obvious!

“Take my hand, Rhys. I’m taking you to Rinnah.” Rhys took her hand as he was bid, and in a moment of concentration, they were flying through the places between worlds, wrapped in the magic protection of destiny and Queen Mab’s intent. It felt to Rhys like hours, years, no time at all and eternity all at once, like a dream within a dream. When they landed, it was hard and sent him tumbling to the ground once more.

Naida turned about, trying to make sure that she had brought them both to the right place. The trees of this grove of apple trees was perfectly tended, heavy fruit grew on their branches. They were in a great courtyard; high towers and battlements surrounded them with pennants flying proudly.

“Naida,” said Rhys as he got to his feet, “you did it! This is the place, I am sure of it, but… is this
Camelot?”

“Of course,” Naida said. “When you reminded me of myths, I felt it was the only right answer. After all, are we not in a myth ourselves?” She laughed gaily.

“Myths usually have monsters-sss, my dear,” hissed an all-too familiar voice. Anebos the cambion slithered out of the shadow of the largest apple tree. Rhys nocked an arrow and drew his bow to his eye.

“What obscenity are you, foul creature?” he demanded.

Naida answered him. “This is Anebos; he is the wraith that slew Minerva! I will take my revenge upon him!”

Without another word, Naida drew on the power granted to her by Mab and threw a thousand blades of air at the undead thing. The assault would have cut a mortal man to ribbons, but the cambion laughed a hissing giggle at her. Rhys loosed his arrow, and the shaft struck true, through where the heart of the creature should be. Anebos placed a hand on the shaft skewering his body, and it turned to dust at his touch.

“You will have to do better than that, my child!” Anebos whimpered, and the air in front of him ignited into a torrent of flame that Naida turned into a cloud of wasps before it could incinerate Rhys.

“My love, find Rinnah! I will hold this creature here; slay him if I may. Mortal weapons cannot kill this abomination!” Naida punctuated her words by turning the ground beneath Anebos to a nest of serpents. Rhys looked on, unsure, but then turned on his heels against everything his heart commanded him to do, and fled into the Orchard.

Naida and Anebos dueled on, fire and blood against faery light.

Chapter Twelve

Camelot, Caerleon, England

Rinnah was sitting waiting for him at the end of the orchard.

She smiled, though she showed no sign of humor in her eyes. Clad in a simple purple shift, with hair of fire and wings that glowed in the sun, she was terror and beauty the same. She wore a great bow of silver and gold over her shoulder. A winged horse stood behind her, grazing on a small pile of apples that were magically raising themselves to be fed to the mystical creature. Rhys bowed to her, half of his mind with Naida. Great booming explosions and cries of anger echoed through the trees, coupled with gasping hisses from the wight Anebos. He felt adrenaline course through his veins.

“Rinnah, I am here.” He said, simply. He found he did not have the words for courtesy.

Rinnah spoke in a voice of tinkling glass. “I? Who is
I
? I am Rinnah, you are not. You, human, who disturbs my orchard with battle? You are unworthy to challenge me.” Rinnah leapt in the air, performed a somersault and landed in the high branch of a tree.

“Wait!” Rhys commanded. “Do you know naught of what has transpired? I must defeat you, or your own queen and all your kin will surely perish, along with me and mine.”

Rinnah laughed, and there was the subtle hint of madness to her glee that seemed like it was water inside a container being filled; so much so that the water would spill over.

What then?
Rhys thought.
Then, she kills me.

“Lady Rinnah, please!” he tried again, beseeching. “Can you understand me at all?” Frustration and no little terror bloomed in his belly as the inya warrior bounced here and there and here again in the treetops, to the accompanying sound of a distant scream of pain from Naida. Rhys could take no more; he had been beaten, he had slain men and lost brothers. His land was in peril, and an insane faery was not going to stop him, not this day. In a fluid motion, he drew and notched one of the broadhead arrows blessed by his mother, and loosed it at Rinnah.

Rinnah bounded backward and caught the arrow neatly in one hand.

“Human, do you know why I have been placed here?” she asked, cocking her head to the side mockingly. She rolled her eyes and then answered her own question. “Of course not! I will tell you. I am here because I do not care! I never have and it is my fate that I never will. I have been deemed eternally impartial to everything and anything that transpires outside of the Silver Orchard.”

“But what if the worlds perish, what will happen to you and your orchard then? Won’t you perish along with the rest of us? You have to care about that!”

“Stupid boy! There are far more worlds that the three you know of and that are now embroiled in turmoil. I will take my trees elsewhere should you fools raze these worlds to the ground. The trial of
Nestaron
has begun!” she cackled. “Three arrows you may fire, I give ye this one for free. Three arrows to hit me square, and I will give the Eternal Branch to thee!”

This stopped Rhys in his tracks. He had thought he would have to shoot targets, fire from horseback or some other task against his skill and prowess with a bow. The look on Rinnah’s face was mad, but he did not believe she was lying.

“What happens if I fail?” he called up to the inya, who was now sitting on a branch dangling her legs.

“Why, I flay you alive and feed you to my horse; of course, of course!”

The jape set Rinnah off into another cackling fit. She lay back on the branch and kicked in the air. This was insanity, and Rhys had no choice but to play along. If he failed, he knew Naida would be brokenhearted. If he died, she would know, and give herself to the cambion for a quick end, like Minerva had. Another sound came over the walls, the beating of drums in the distance. They seemed far away, but without seeing, he could not tell for sure. However, Rhys was sure that it was Mordred’s hosts.

“Damn you, Rinnah! I do not have time for these games!” Rhys cried, and drew an arrow. Rinnah looked expectantly at him, daring him with her eyes to try the shot. He loosed, and the arrow flew; he was sure he could not miss, faery or nay. The arrow drilled fully half its shaft length into the trunk of the tree on which Rinnah had been standing an instant before. Rinnah laughed; she was now hanging upside down from a tree thirty feet away. Her winged horse whickered loudly, sharing in the mirth.
Impossible,
Rhys thought. Nothing moves that fast; or at least, nothing should.

“One down, two to go, Rhys of Gascogne! Then I skin you, that’s what I’ll do,” Rinnah sang. Rhys said nothing, and drew another arrow. He tried something different this time; he plucked an apple from the ground, and threw it at Rinnah, who caught it neatly.

“Yummy, thanks for the treat, but bribery won’t work on me!” She danced upon a branch that should not have been able to support her weight.

“You are welcome, Rinnah; have another!” Rhys loosed as he spoke, hands moving so fast to notch and loose that he was a blur of crimson and gold, his tunic flapping around him. The arrow left his bow like a thunderbolt, cleaving through the air toward the crazed guardian of the branch. Again, the arrow found nothing but the trees, and Rinnah was gone, dancing madly across the grass like an entertainer. How long had she been here, Rhys wondered. Not just here, but all the other places when the orchard had been found. So many attempted heroes, so many times defeated, none worthy to be
Nestaron.
The horse looked at him with what he perceived to be hungry eyes.

In the distance, a desperate scream came, the drums boomed, and Rhys felt that all his existence had led to this moment, his moment of death and failure. The horse whinnied, and then he knew. How he could not say, but he knew how to beat this opponent. It was how he had felt when he knew Naida could find this place; it was like the memory had always been with him, but was not his own.

He notched his bow, and loosed his last arrow.

Chapter Thirteen

Newport, Cornwall, England

Erasmus rode near the head of the three thousand mounted soldiers and militia the forces of Avalon had managed to gather together.

At the very front, mere feet from where his horse trotted in line, were the combined glories of the twelfth and thirteenth Glastennings, all six of the regal-looking women riding abreast, clad in silver and gold. They gleamed in the light, as behind him did the lances and spears of the horsemen. How Morgan le Fae had managed this feat in a day was beyond the ken of a valet like Erasmus, but he was proud that he had been believed and not dismissed as a lunatic.

Six miles from Camelot, they had noticed the clouds growing dark in the distance. No doubt, said Le Fae; it was the forces of Oberon and Mordred combined; an evil alliance so foul they polluted the very air. Erasmus felt his heart quail at the thought of fighting such a terrible army with just the forces at the disposal of Avalon.

“Damn it, Rhys, I hope the afterlife is treating you well. I know your old teacher could use your sword at his side today,” Erasmus muttered to himself under his breath, so no over-attentive soldier would hear him. It was as he spoke these words that the head of the column came out of the southern road which was flanked on both sides by heavy forests, and into the open plain of Camelot Vale. What lay before Erasmus astounded him. In the distance lay Camelot to the west. To the north, he could see the black banners of Mordred, the thrice-cursed villain, and his army of demons and wild men. Yet, most surprising of all, was the stunning sight of the mighty force to the east, at his guess five thousand strong with many knights and soldiers in mail. They bore the banner of Camelot and King Arthur, and even from this distance, he could see the noble king himself, riding at the head of his forces atop a white steed. Among the force he could see many strange warriors who looked like women, but were too wondrous and strange to be humans. Aboard chariots they were, and the force was at the gallop, spearing like a bolt of sunlight toward the encroaching dread of the blackness.

“It’s a bloody miracle!” he said, and completely forgetting to mutter this to himself, he near shouted it. There was a ripple of cheers from the soldiers around him.

Morgan le Fae turned on her horse.

“Soldiers of Avalon, men of England, King Arthur rides forward into battle. Queen Mab’s own chieftain, Titania and her Amazonians, ride with him. Shall we allow our lord and lady to fight alone?” she cried.

“Nay!” came the response from a thousand throats.

“Then let us fight! For Avalon!” Morgan yelled, and wheeling on her horse, led her own warriors into the charge. Hooves thundered and voices were raised in clamor; a last denial of the long night. If that day was to be the last of the realm of free men, then the free men of England would not go quietly. The charge of Avalon met and ran parallel with the charge of the Knights of The Round Table and their army.

Now that they were closer, Erasmus, bent low over the neck of his horse with his nicked and dented old sword drawn, could see that the chariots were driven by winged beings. “So there really are faeries. They are real after all!” he said, although only his horse could now hear him.

The magical chariots forked away to the east at speed, spying some line in the forces of Mordred that drew them. Ahead, the army of Mordred also broke into a run. They were less than a bowshot distant, but neither force fired arrows. Mordred’s army were mainly on foot, but outnumbered the forces of light, at least three to one, by Erasmus’ ken. He could see now the black-armored forms of Mordred’s guard, the brightly colored woad of the Celt and Pict forces; the grim, bearded warriors that came by long ships from the far north over the sea, and scores of ash faced beings with red eyes, black cowled monstrosities and fell, demonic figures. Over their heads swooped great bat-like creatures, many strides across in wingspan, and as they flew, Erasmus felt the clutching hand of terror attempt to sap his courage and turn his tail.

“Never!” Erasmus roared, and that was the last word he found before the clashing, thunderous charge met the impenetrable shield wall of Mordred’s army. His horse barreled into men alongside many others, and he swung his sword over and over, hewing and slashing. He was aware of the battle around him only vaguely through his helm; he heard the black beasts in the air screaming most terrible; fire bloomed in the heavens and he knew not if it was for good or ill. He slashed a Pict in the face, blocked an axe blow with his heavy wooden shield, which splintered and broke. Erasmus yelled in pain and struck back at his assailant; yet his horse reared and threw him backward.

Then, terror truly took him. Standing before Erasmus was the fell and huge figure of Mordred the Usurper, the death-bringer to so much of England. The demon who had slain Rhys, Erasmus reminded himself. He gathered his courage, for now was surely the moment of his doom. Mordred hefted easily in one hand a huge hammer that would have taken Erasmus two hands to wield.

“Mordred, you cur! I’ll not sell my life cheaply to you! For Camelot!” Erasmus roared, and brandished his sword. Mordred merely looked at him, amused.

“Stand aside, friend. I think this fight is mine,” said a great and deep voice behind him. Erasmus dared not look, but did as he was bid. The warrior who strode into the fray was clad in gold, with a billowing white cloak. His sword was drawn, and as the sun caught it, Erasmus was no longer afraid.

“Excalibur, by my stars!” he said, and then the battle was begun in earnest. Father against son, king against usurper, fae against demon, and man against man.