A Light in the Dark: A King Arthur/Warhammer 40k Imperial Knights Story

[Icipall]

It surprised him in its normality. The flower smell seemed to come from a sizable collection of uncorrupted greenery she had on a desk, under an artificial sun lamp. She had a collection of old leather-bound books on a wooden bookshelf, and only one bed, which she was presently sitting on, fiddling with all twenty of her fingers and looking at him nervously.

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It is the normalcy of it all from a follower of Chaos that makes it so suspicious.

She's rather shy and bookish, actually. I'll read a forbidden text any day, but I'm not one to sit around like a pretty flower not taking what I want. So I tried to push her to do just that."

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Culhwch really isn't having an easy time. And if Olwen's advances are actually genuine, it is going to get harder.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

She wasn't sure how, exactly, but King Caradoc had managed to convince the three men escorting them to stay for a time. After the, admittedly quite good, dinner, they had had a conversation to the side, which she had only managed to catch a few scattered words of. 'Nimue', which she was pretty sure was a name, as well as what she thought meant 'lake' and 'kings'.

She and Brandaine spent the last two weeks mostly with the priest in training Gildas, and from dawn to dusk the boy taught them the language. Much of Diane's training with her house had consisted of learning dialects from across the sector, and though far removed there were similarities between the tongue of Avalon and language she had learned that originated from the fringe space towards the edge of Macsen's Folly.

Brandaine, clearly, didn't have the knack for language Diane had. She knew two: Colloquial Low Gothic and a mid-hive trade dialect that sounded like gravel rumbling in her throat. The guardswoman was clearly growing frustrated at her slow progress in comparison with her fellow castaway.

Currently, there was a moment in the lesson, and the boy Gildas was sitting in rapt attention as Brandaine taught him several extremely foul curse words in both the languages she knew, and a few she had picked up over the course of her career with the Astra Militarum. "I would suggest," she said with a smirk, "you don't say this one in front of Master Poul."

The boy priest nodded sagely. He had a pad of paper on his lap, and was writing down the words with a serious expression on his face. "Of course, of course," he responded.

"Where did you learn a Cadian curse?" Diane asked, smiling lightly.

"We happened to pass by a Cadian regiment while they were on transit to a proper warzone," Brandaine replied, "you tend to pick up curse words before anything else." She smiled. This seemed to be calming down her frustration with her slow progress.

"Most valuable," Gildas declared, setting down his pencil. "Thank you, lady."

"May I ask why you wish to know such foul language?" Diane asked the boy. "It hardly seems like a good habit for a priest to have." She was practicing with Avallic, and it was starting to sound good on her tongue, if still rather halting.

Gildas smirked, for once looking his real age. "Oh, I just like having as many ways as possible to tell people how I feel about them, in terms that will burn strongly into their brains."

Narrowing her eyes, Brandaine tried to follow the conversation. "By cursing them?" she asked, wincing as she seemed certain she hadn't followed right.

The boy grinned impishly. "Perhaps. Good job following it. You are catching on."

The guardswoman relaxed a little, smiling. "Oh. Well, good. I'll be fluent within the year, I think."

"If you keep at it," Gildas confirmed, "and keep immersed."

"Can't exactly help that," sighed Brandaine.

"Right, right," Gildas stammered, instantly awkward.

There wouldn't have been many ships off this planet, even before this place had been cut off. The Knights would have been shipped off for military action, certainly, but that would be the bulk of it. Still, Diane couldn't help but think there were some strange things about Avalon. There had been a Cadian Regiment stationed here. Why?

"What do you think is keeping us here?" Diane asked, trying to organically change the subject.

"I don't know," Gildas answered. He sounded a bit annoyed, this wasn't the first time Diane had asked, and the answer had never changed. "King Caradoc has kept whatever he agreed with Sir Pelleas hidden from others. A King has such a prerogative, as does a knight."

"Whatever it is, Herne is pretty mad about it," Brandaine noted, something she had made sure to point out every time this conversation had come up.

Herne had seemed a bit irritated, at least at first, but from what Diane could see of him the huntsman had settled into a relaxed enough rhythm. He'd actually gone out this morning, possibly on a mission of some sort. In comparison, Sir Pelleas and Manw had both seemed to take the matter in stride.

"He seems alright now," Diane mused, "I do wonder what that is about?"

Gildas blurted, "I think he's leading some of the soldiers on a hunt for some supporters of the fanatics who've been burning down villages. There is a refugee camp, and some were sighted trying to rally support there. Desperate, starving people just trying to escape the grasp of the Chaos Lords. If the sect is trying to snatch them up for recruits that's bad. The King, of course, is dipping into his stores to try and feed them, but it has been difficult."

"There are more of them?" Diane asked.

"Of course there are, we have it worse than any other of the kingdoms," Gildas grumbled, "if we hadn't found employment here, I can't imagine what Father Dylan would have been driven to."

Diane was certain it was less what the man would be driven to, and more what would prove the most beneficial to the priest himself. Dylan had proven a nuisance, watching her at all times, always holding an aquila of pure iron in front of him when she got too close.

He owned several of those holy symbols, but only ever used the iron one when he saw her getting too close. She wasn't certain why it had to be iron, specifically, but perhaps it had to do with what he had called her the first day she had come here. Clearly, he thought of her as a kind of supernatural evil that could be repelled through holy magic.

Outside, there was the sound of trumpets and the clattering of the large gate. The tramping of horseshoes on the stone road leading to the keep, and other sounds of activity that always heralded the return of a group of men.

"Let's see what happened," Gildas said. He rose to his feet and was out the door, not waiting for the women's response.

Diane and Brandaine looked at each other, shrugged, and followed the boy.

The group that had returned was one of the smaller parties sent out to search around the destroyed villages and surrounding area. A group of soldiers, riding local horses and armed with an eclectic mix of weapons.

They had ridden in with whoops and cheers, waving their swords in the air. A few were wounded, but none had come back draped over their horses. The corpses that were so draped were red-robed priests, who looked pathetic and malnourished without the fire of vitality coursing through them.

There were three prisoners, two more red robed fanatics, and an ordinary looking man, tied with horse rope. They were shoved off the horses by the riders, and fell to the stone with painful sounding thuds.

King Caradoc emerged from the keep at last, his wife beside him. He looked down among the group, frowning. "You took these all?" he asked. "No casualties?"

"We took them by surprise, your highness," the leader called breathlessly. He pointed with his sword at the ordinary man. "This fellow was with them, we heard him, he was going to sell them weapons and armor."

"No!" cried the man, forcing his way to his knees. "I was held captive, King, I was only doing what I had to do to survive. I am an honest merchant, nothing more!"

"One should stand before the heretic and speak truth in strength," one of the fanatics croaked out. The madman looked up, and Diane shivered as those boiling eyes settled on her. "King Caradoc intends to side with King Arthur the Daemon, and invites creatures to his realm. Speak your truth, goodman, don't hide it before such evil."

The man grew pale. "I never believed in any of your nonsense," he shrieked, "it was just business, last I checked men are allowed to carry weapons in this realm, surely you understand that, King Caradoc?"

Caradoc stepped forward, his men parting to let him through. He was tugging at his beard, quivering with agitation. "All who aren't enemies to the crown are allowed, yes. And you sir, have sold to enemies of me, men who have attacked my villages."

"I had no way of knowin-"

"My villages!" Caradoc roared. He grabbed a spear from one of his footman. He was quivering with rage. "My people! My farms! My wheat!" He raised the spear.

"Please don't kill me," the man shrieked. Even from where she stood, Diane smelled the stench of his urine.

Caradoc drove the spear deep into the first fanatic's chest. Blood spurted everywhere as he ripped it free, before impaling the other through the throat, this time driving the spear down deep so the man was propped almost upright by the spear. He stepped back, sweating and painting with exertion and rage.

"Thank you," the terrified merchant croaked, his companions' blood splattering his clothes. "You are most merciful."

Caradoc turned away. "Your gold and your goods will be confiscated."

"Of course, of course," the merchant stammered, "of course, thank you, thank you."

"You will be flogged. Publicly. Twenty times, then left in the stockade so those who your friends left homeless can see you in shame."

The man paled, and opened his mouth to protest. He stopped when the King looked back for a moment, his eyes feral with rage. He went limp as he was pulled away by a pair of armsmen. The corpses were left where they had died, for now.

King Caradoc walked over to Gildas and the two castaways. He smiled, and the rage vanished from him as easily as a cloak. He patted Gildas' hair, accidentally leaving blood flakes in the straw locks. "Gildas, boy, how are the lessons going?"

Diane answered, managing a smile, "Quite well, King Caradoc, me and Brandaine can follow conversations well enough."

The King looked at her. "Good to hear. I plan on setting a good lunch before Herne and Poul return with their party. I do hope this unpleasantness ends soon."

"What are you going to do about King Arthur?" Gildas asked.

"Not sure. I haven't decided yet. I know nothing about him aside from the fact he is Sir Ector's foster boy. I like Ector. Good sort, excellent sword to have at your side, so I'm inclined to respect anyone raised by him. They say Sir Bedwyr One-Arm is with him as well, that old bard who came by a few months ago spoke quite well of that young man." He shook his head. "Young people all. That tends to make people act foolish." He glared at the dead fanatics. "Some more than others."

Queen Ysave walked over, the young woman a little pale. "Caradoc," she said gently, "we should eat. You barely touched breakfast, and have had too much excitement on such an empty stomach."

Caradoc looked at her, then at the two men he had killed. He frowned, and whispered something too fast and too soft for Diane to catch. Ysave responded by kissing his cheek.

"Join us," he said to the three, smiling tiredly. "Learning a new tongue is no doubt as exhausting as fighting in these endless conflicts."

There was no use arguing, and they followed him back to the keep. Diane looked back as they entered. Finally, a group of armsmen were clearing the bodies away, and servants were cleaning the spilled blood and other filth. She shivered, and tried to think about food instead.

 

[Icipall]

Gildas smirked, for once looking his real age. "Oh, I just like having as many ways as possible to tell people how I feel about them, in terms that will burn strongly into their brains."

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Hah!

They had ridden in with whoops and cheers, waving their swords in the air. A few were wounded, but none had come back draped over their horses. The corpses that were so draped were red-robed priests, who looked pathetic and malnourished without the fire of vitality coursing through them.

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Sounds like they had a good hunt.

Caradoc turned away. "Your gold and your goods will be confiscated."

"Of course, of course," the merchant stammered, "of course, thank you, thank you."

"You will be flogged. Publicly. Twenty times, then left in the stockade so those who your friends left homeless can see you in shame."

The man paled, and opened his mouth to protest. He stopped when the King looked back for a moment, his eyes feral with rage. He went limp as he was pulled away by a pair of armsmen. The corpses were left where they had died, for now.

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Yeah, considering how Caradoc feels about your and the priests' actions, that's the best you're going to get.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

The hold was quiet, Bedwyr thought. Far too quiet for what was happening. A man had been killed, and one had certainly gotten away to inform King Tewdrig. They had made sure of that. The reasonable response would have been to set up defenses, prepare for the King to seek justice.

And yet there wasn't a single armsman on the wall, no knights in front to meet the four. The gate was shut tight, but that was nothing that couldn't be settled by a blow from Bedwyr's lance.

"I'm almost insulted," Cei sniffed over vox, "I say we attack."

"I concur," Balin growled. "They are turtling. We have the ability to punish them harshly for that."

"I think we should try to avoid burning an allied castle to the ground," Arthur said calmly.

"I didn't say anything about burning it," protested Cei, "just smash down the walls a bit, that's all."

Bedwyr scanned the walls carefully, frowning to himself. It was indeed strange how quiet this was. The castle and town was much as he remembered when he was a child. Powerful walls that stood strong against the ravages of time and war, the peaks of the houses that huddled behind them for protection. King Tewdrig's main hall was a dour citadel, its simple towers looming above even those.

There was, at last, a sound. The ringing of a bell, a beautiful metallic clang that broke the hanging of dread. Bedwyr let out a breath. "Well, at least we know someone is alive in there."

The bell continued to ring, in faster and faster intervals, as if whoever was working at it was growing desperate.

"Someone is approaching, from the forest," Myrddin called over the tolling of the bell. "A lady, in a bad way."

With Myrddin's pointing her out, Bedwyr could indeed make out the small, ragged figure of a woman scrambling over from under the trees. She was clearly unarmed, and dressed in dirty clothes. She stopped before King Arthur, staring up at his no-doubt strange looking machine.

"Be you of the Emperor, or a creature of the Otherworld?" the poor woman cried. "I hardly care anymore, just please help us! One of King Tewdrig's knights returned saying King Arthur killed two of his fellows and was coming here!" She was rambling, exhausted and incoherent. "We thought he would get together with his army, but the Father ordered everyone into the church. King Tewdrig had no say I don't think, he hasn't done anything for awhile, I'm not sure what the priest is doing."

"Something stupid, no doubt," Balin growled. The woman shrank away from Balin's machine as the voice rumbled through the speakers. No doubt with its beastial skulls and twinned blades, it resembled a beast of the Otherword as much as Arthur's Caliburn.

"Lady," King Arthur said gently, "I am Arthur, High King of Avalon. I confess myself and King Tewdrig are at odds. He has, from what I can tell, committed multiple sins and crimes against the law of the land. I'm here to bring him to account, but not at the cost of innocent lives."

The woman shifted, Bedwyr thought he could see her blushing. "Your Highness, I am hardly a lady, just a farmer's wife."

Instead of answering that, King Arthur said, "Allow me to dismount, I would speak to you face to face. Lady Cei, Sir Balin, please continue to watch the Caer."

At a more personal distance, the woman turned out to be in her late thirties, dressed in filthy rags, and with the brittle sharpness that suggested malnourishment and rough times. Guinevere, wearing that long cloak, was helping her sit as Arthur and Bedwyr walked in.

The woman's eyes widened. "You are little more than boys," she declared softly.

Arthur smiled. "I'm a grown man, madam, and the King in truth."

She bowed her head a little. "Still."

"Madam, if you would explain what has been happening in King Tewdrig's kingdom?" Myrddin asked, looming away from the rest.

"King Tewdrig isn't in charge anymore. Oh his seal still appears on things, but he hasn't been seen in months. That Father." She blushed. "I don't mean to speak ill of any anointed servant of the God-Emperor, but the man is a nightmare. My family and I haven't attended a service in a long time. Throne help us, but it has been a private war between me and him."

"And where is your family now, are they in the woods?" Arthur asked. It seemed clear the woman had been hiding there.

"No. A week ago, they sent out men to gather up all the people in these parts. I had a bad feeling, so I hid in the woods, but my family had to give themselves up." She quivered. "The ringing of the bell. I know it heralds something terrible." Guinevere rubbed the woman's shoulder, looking over to Arthur with a worried expression on her lovely face.

"This Father, what can you tell me about him?" Arthur asked.

She scowled. "He came here several years ago, and immediately began to worm his way into the King's confidence. Fire and brimstone directed mainly towards the poor refugees, and also whatever he wants the King to focus on. He almost had me proclaimed a witch in fact, thankfully my neighbors have some damn sense!"

"You've implied something disturbing about King Tewdrig," Arthur continued, "do you know anything more about that?"

She took a breath. "I have heard a rumor that the last time he was seen in public, he collapsed spasming to the ground. He hasn't been seen since."

Bedwyr looked over to Arthur. "Sir Gawain would call that a seizure or stroke right?" He had only a basic understanding of medicine.

"Can't say without more information," Arthur replied. "What did the Father say about it?"

"He claims King Tewdrig is in seclusion, taking in the power of the God-Emperor." She scowled. "He expects us to believe that he is about to become a Living Saint, like Lady Celestine."

Outside, the bell continued to ring. Arthur stood, and turned toward the door. He was growing pale. "Madam. Your story worries me deeply. I suspect I may have to break down the walls of the Caer today."

"How many soldiers will be there?" Bedwyr asked.

"King Tewdrig has about a hundred and sixty armsmen in his household guard, and his Lance of Knights has grown rapidly since he started taking in Freeblade mercenaries, offering pardons. You are but four, right? Even if the armsmen flee before you, the knights will outnumber."

Arthur smiled at the woman. "Worry not. We will strike fast as lightning, we will find out what is happening and settle it before the bulk of them can even move."

"Emperor protect you, King Arthur," the farmwife said. She began to weep, and Guinevere hugged her close.

Myrddin followed as they exited. "You have a suspicion, don't you?" he asked Arthur. "Taking together the threads and hints to understand what this Father is trying to do."

King Arthur placed his hands on his hips, scowling. "May I be wrong. I hope that such a man has at least some restraint, some sense."

"It is a ritual, right?" Bedwyr asked. He closed his eyes, trying to piece it together like Arthur had. "King Tewdrig trying to become a Living Saint, gathering all these people together, ringing that bell." His blood ran cold. "No. Surely not?"

"It is the worst case scenario. No matter what, King Tewdrig and his minions have broken rules indeed. I intend to kill as few people as possible, but it is true. It is time to strike."

Myrddin lit his pipe, sighing softly. "Dear boy, is it ever not the worst case?"

Neither Bedwyr or Arthur answered that.

 

[bookwyrm]

honestly with the ominous tolling bell, the combination of brutal fanaticism and rampant power-seeking, and the smell, space rasputin here would have been fantastic as a Grey Seer of the Horned Rat.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

honestly with the ominous tolling bell, the combination of brutal fanaticism and rampant power-seeking, and the smell, space rasputin here would have been fantastic as a Grey Seer of the Horned Rat.

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Simply born in the wrong universe to the wrong race, poor guy

 

[Icipall]

The hold was quiet, Bedwyr thought. Far too quiet for what was happening. A man had been killed, and one had certainly gotten away to inform King Tewdrig. They had made sure of that. The reasonable response would have been to set up defenses, prepare for the King to seek justice.

And yet there wasn't a single armsman on the wall, no knights in front to meet the four. The gate was shut tight, but that was nothing that couldn't be settled by a blow from Bedwyr's lance.

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Suspicious. Very suspicious.

"King Tewdrig isn't in charge anymore. Oh his seal still appears on things, but he hasn't been seen in months. That Father." She blushed. "I don't mean to speak ill of any anointed servant of the God-Emperor, but the man is a nightmare. My family and I haven't attended a service in a long time. Throne help us, but it has been a private war between me and him."

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And the plot thickens.

"It is a ritual, right?" Bedwyr asked. He closed his eyes, trying to piece it together like Arthur had. "King Tewdrig trying to become a Living Saint, gathering all these people together, ringing that bell." His blood ran cold. "No. Surely not?"

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I smell Chaos bullshittery at foot.

 

[bookwyrm]

Honestly I think that might chicken out a bit about how the Father works as a villain. If the Redemptionists were from the start controlled by leaders using them for Chaotic ends, then doesn't that lessen some of the pathos of the robed lynch mobs being an internal enemy, the threat of Avalon taking on an undercurrent of the Imperium at large, of becoming just as crazy and self-destructive as the Arch-Enemy so as to blanket oneself in utterly certain dogma and death in utterly certain martyrdom? There's plenty of Pysker shit and ritual shenaniganry all still within the Imperial Cult of the God-Emperor, or at least stuff not explicitly Daemonic.

 

[a11behringer]

People always forget about the Imperial Death Cults.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

When in full combat readiness, perhaps, the gate could have held against anything short of a full assault of Greenskins. Even Knights could be given some trouble, through efforts by the defenders and the druids of the keep. But as the bell continued to ring, somehow faster and faster, there were no defenders on this day.

Bedwyr and Balin struck at it swiftly and brutally, shattering old stone and sending the metal bands flying about with the force. The great door split open, and the two entered the city, ahead of Cei and the King.

It was hardly the first time Bedwyr had assaulted a city. It was a rare feat in the Chaoslands, but every now and then it had been managed. This was the first time he forced his way into what appeared to be a ghost town. The only sign of life remained the ringing of the bell, far away.

The road was wide enough for two knights to move through side-by-side, flanked by stone buildings. There was an inn close to the gate, noticeable for the fact that the sign marking it as such was defaced with bright red paint, the doors shattered in a mirror of the ones leading into the castle town.

In grim silence, they made their way down the road, towards the sound of the hideous bell. There were figures that looked disturbingly like bodies, hung on any overhang and pole. The number grew as the bell grew louder and more frantic.

Suddenly, two other knights rounded the corner. Their mounts were colorless and free of icon except for a quickly painted Aquilla on each of their pauldrons. Paint still ran down the shoulders and onto the mighty mechanical arms.

"Oh," groaned one, "you got in." The other shifted back, both seemed to be trying to not show any sense of aggression.

"We did," Balin agreed, "you guys didn't exactly make it hard for us. What do you think, King, should we rip them apart?"

"Only if they attack us," King Arthur responded. He stepped forward, and with some awkward maneuvering, Bedwyr made way for him. "You two seem to be apart from the others. Explain what has happened."

The two shifted, almost human-like. They were silent for a moment, and Bedwyr had a bad feeling they were trying to measure the threat. Caliburn seemed unarmed and deceptively weak. His lance almost involuntarily lifted. He did some calculations himself, preparing for battle.

"Look," said the one who was a bit more forward, "we thought it was a good deal. We did a bit of banditry, I'll admit that. So we got offered a pardon in exchange for standing guard and fighting a few heretics."

"It was a good deal," the other interjected, desperately. "How were we supposed to know that priest would go mad?"

"Seems to me it was a pretty obvious deduction," Cei sneered, "you two seem like the sort to not be able to see past a bit of silver. Not enough honor between the two of you to fill the average plowman!"

"Shouldn't you be spreading your legs for some nobleman, lady?" snarled the leader.

"Shouldn't you be? Would certainly be a better profession than this."

Bedwyr could somehow see the other man's face growing purple at that, despite it not being physically visible. "Cei," he hissed through private vox. "For the love of all that is good and holy let Arthur handle this."

"Fine," she growled back, and then was silent.

"Nonetheless, it seems you aren't about to attack us," Arthur continued as if there had been no interruption. "You men are surely unable to act without supervision. Surrender to me, and join me in my attack on the priest."

The two looked at each other. "Yeah. We aren't going to work for no one anymore. King Tewdrig may be a catatonic wretch controlled by a madman, but you are said to be more than half daemon and tied at the hip to that foul old wretch of a wizard."

Arthur sighed. "Sirs. I don't trust you to do no harm to innocents, and you insulting me and spewing lies makes me suspect you don't intend to handle this peacefully." Over the private line, he calmly said, "Be ready, these men aren't alone, otherwise they wouldn't be so bold."

Already turning, Bedwyr wasn't surprised to see three more approaching them from behind, wet paint dripping down their pauldrons. More desperate bandit Freeblades.

"No more serving Kings," sneered the leader, "no more playing like the Emperor isn't just rotting on his throne."

And with that, all five of the bandits attacked, crude old chainblades singing, almost drowning out the sound of the bell.

Sir Balin met the two up front, and both his own swords flashed and hacked. The leader fell into two halves, and the savage warrior slid into a defensive position, managing to keep the other's away from any vulnerable bits.

Bedwyr's lance impaled through the first's cockpit, and he felt the crunch of metal and bone on the tip. Beside him, Cei parried the blow of the chainblade, forcing it wide, then firing her stubbers point blank, further attacks beating the man down.

King Arthur faced the second foe of his career with grim determination, sliding out of the way of the stroke, then driving two punches right into the side of the cockpit, sending the knight staggering into one of the houses. He pressed hard, and shattered it with fearsome blows, until it fell apart.

All the while, the bell still rang. Balin had killed his other foe with grim ease, and growled, "Well, best move along, I say."

Stepping over the broken remains of the bandits, they continued on the way. Bedwyr could tell that the bell had only grown in frequency. Did they have a servitor on it? He couldn't imagine a mortal human body being capable of forcing the frequency to get higher and higher.

The church was the grandest building in the castletown, even more decorated than King Tewdrig's palace. New growth clung to it like buds on a rosebush, and growing from the center of it, high as if to touch space itself, was the belltower. The bell had grown louder and all the while more frequent.

Surrounding the church was King Tewdrig's army. Several more of the dull-colored freeblades, newly done-up in red paint, and far more armsmen. The door was shut tight, wrapped in chains. Even from far away, Bedwyr could see that it was a carved and complex door, covered in scenes from holy books.

A massive podium had been set up before the church, motorized and wheeling about. Standing on the top of the podium was a screaming old man in bright red robes, waving a golden staff tipped with the eagle of the God-Emperor, a screaming singing sword in his other hand. Over the bell and the sword he was screaming in a High Cant, a form of Gothic Bedwyr only knew a little of. He wished Bedwin was here.

There was an advantage to the fanatic's focus on his own ravings, he was entirely caught up in his own world and so was everyone else. The soldiers were rapt, staring up at the man. As they stalked closer, Bedwyr noticed the door was shaking, the chains rattling. As if someone within was trying to escape.

The priest gestured with his sword, still screaming its death song, and Bedwyr at least understood two words in the cant. "Cleansing fire." Three knights stepped forward, and they were armed with inferno weapons that dripped with boiling heat.

It had become all too clear. Bedwyr felt the urge to charge immediately, and stop this, but he looked to Arthur, settling his temper. It was up to him how this was to be played.

[Merry Christmas! For this day, have some violence and acts of shocking horror!]

 

[Icipall]

"Look," said the one who was a bit more forward, "we thought it was a good deal. We did a bit of banditry, I'll admit that. So we got offered a pardon in exchange for standing guard and fighting a few heretics."

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I'm sure you did.

"Shouldn't you be spreading your legs for some nobleman, lady?" snarled the leader.

"Shouldn't you be? Would certainly be a better profession than this."

Click to shrink...

Arthur sighed. "Sirs. I don't trust you to do no harm to innocents, and you insulting me and spewing lies makes me suspect you don't intend to handle this peacefully." Over the private line, he calmly said, "Be ready, these men aren't alone, otherwise they wouldn't be so bold."

Already turning, Bedwyr wasn't surprised to see three more approaching them from behind, wet paint dripping down their pauldrons. More desperate bandit Freeblades.

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Fight it is then.

Sir Balin met the two up front, and both his own swords flashed and hacked. The leader fell into two halves, and the savage warrior slid into a defensive position, managing to keep the other's away from any vulnerable bits.

Bedwyr's lance impaled through the first's cockpit, and he felt the crunch of metal and bone on the tip. Beside him, Cei parried the blow of the chainblade, forcing it wide, then firing her stubbers point black, further attacks beating the man down.

King Arthur faced the second foe of his career with grim determination, sliding out of the way of the stroke, then driving two punches right into the side of the cockpit, sending the knight staggering into one of the houses. He pressed hard, and shattered it with fearsome blows, until it fell apart.

All the while, the bell still rang. Balin had killed his other foe with grim ease, and growled, "Well, best move along, I say."

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...Well, that was easy.

There was an advantage to the fanatic's focus on his own ravings, he was entirely caught up in his own world and so was everyone else. The soldiers were rapt, staring up at the man. As they stalked closer, Bedwyr noticed the door was shaking, the chains rattling. As if someone within was trying to escape.

The priest gestured with his sword, still screaming its death song, and Bedwyr at least understood two words in the cant. "Cleansing fire." Three knights stepped forward, and they were armed with inferno weapons that dripped with boiling heat.

Click to shrink...

Oh shit, there are people there! Now it explains the frantic bell ringing, ain't no motivator like fear and desperation.

 

[baud]

point black

Click to shrink...

Should be blank

Merry Christmas !

 

[Golden Eyed King]

Just binged this whole thing, it's pretty good and i am keen to read more. I'm really enjoying the Bene Jesserat angle of the Damsels.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

Arthur had learned much about politics from Myrddin. More importantly, he had learned about power. Within a society, there were always things on which those with power leveraged influence. Politics was one, money another.

Presently, Arthur knew, they lived in a universe in which religion was the principle source of might. The Imperium was a Theocratic Empire, all centered around the God-Emperor on his throne. Even on Avalon, where the Church had always held lesser power, the priests held some degree of strength over knight and noble, certainly over damsels and druids, the remnants of the indigenous religion.

The other fact Arthur knew was that on some level every religion carried a grain of truth, and he was familiar enough with all the mysteries. The Chaos Gods were real. Rituals performed in their name carried true weight, and led to horrific and terrifying ends. Virgins strapped to stone altars, their organs torn out and presented to screaming tentacles, a million million gladiators ripping each other to shreds hollowing for Khorne the Blood God even as they died, hideous plagues unleashed to sacrifice the entirety of worlds to Nurgle the Vile. His mind had been hardened to this fact. Ultimately, his goal was to lead humanity to a point where the Gods could be torn down and destroyed.

Yet so too was the God-Emperor real. He had presence in both a physical sense on his throne on far-away Terra and within the Otherworld, the psychic underpinning of the consciousness of all the sentient races.

So it stood to reason that the God-Emperor could be reached as well, that his hand could come down and create miracles. Of course something like that hadn't been recorded on Avalon for over five hundred years. Whether those actually had happened was almost immaterial. The fact was people believed such things were possible, and had some grounding to think it was correct. Such was the power of legend, and all legend had a grain of truth.

Right now, this priest had embraced the most desperate act of the Imperial Cult. There were branches of that seemingly singular organization that worshiped murder in the name of the Throne. Recorded history of Avalon being uncut off from the wider Imperium had included records of issues with such cults, such concepts. Perhaps the Redemptionists were an offshoot.

The Priest in the fine clothes was screaming in the highest Gothic, complex formal speak that only the most educated could understand. Arthur was of course fluent. This speaking was as much about knowing the specific chant the speaker was drawing from, and Arthur wasn't familiar with whatever so-called holy script the desperate fool was drawing from, but he didn't have to. When one was speaking of cleansing fires and the pyres of faithful souls, it led to only one conclusion. The conclusion he had already reached when he saw the church, locked tight, with the flame-armed knights moving slowly but steadily toward it.

The foot troops in their house surcoats milled about, keeping away from the Freeblades and the sweating and screaming priest. They were armed well enough, but clearly out of their depth. Some were trying to join in on the cant, but most looked lost and confused, caught up in the sweeping energy but also terrified of it.

It was ten of these soldiers that first saw Arthur and his knights approach. The leader, helm off, his aged face pale, turned even whiter when he saw the three, led by King Arthur in the strange archeo-machine.

They stared up for a long moment, stunned into silence. They didn't even go for their weapons, they just stepped aside, pressing against the edges of the street to allow the knights' passage.

Arthur was taking deep breaths as they got closer. Caliburn was hard to control at this moment, the dragon's spirit possessed a brutal streak of justice and a determination to protect those that it deemed as under its protection. This was untempered by any human consideration, and therefore controlling it was difficult.

The cant rose to an obvious climax, but when the fire didn't begin, the priest blinked and asked in a more normal language: "What are you fools waiting for?"

"I suspect you don't command quite as much respect as you think, Father," Arthur declared. Any quiver in his voice was removed by the great draconic speakers of Caliburn. "Perhaps they wonder where their King is."

The soldiers moved quickly, seeming to flow away. Veterans, who could see a fight coming. Arthur allowed them. This would be between Knights, if it came to blows.

The priest was younger than Arthur expected, not even middle-aged from what he could tell. His red robes were stained with sweat, and his eyes were wide in a pale terrified face. It only grew more terrified at seeing King Arthur looming above him. "Daemon!" he screamed, scrambling for a word to call it by. "Thirster of Blood!"

Arthur took in the situation quickly. Most of the armsmen were backing away, some full on running. The Knights turned away from the church, and most stood stock still, waiting. "I am no daemon, Father, I am King Arthur. Pendragon of Avalon, the Sword of Sector Prydain. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

Backing away, the priest almost tripped over the scaffolding of his podium. "You were bred from the loins of the sorcerer, the child of lies and false light! The one true King is the God-Emperor, who will come down soon, once the pyre is lit!"

"Please, see reason," Arthur argued, "you must understand this is madness. How many people are you about to kill?"

The man flinched. "The pyre must be fueled by the souls of the faithful! It is the only way!"

"Is your flock so disposable?" Arthur roared. His head was aching, the dragon screaming just behind his perception to kill and destroy. "Does your mission mean nothing, Father? To protect humanity, to serve the Imperium? Is life so easily disposable to you?"

"If it serves the God-Emperor, yes!" screamed the priest. "All human life exists to serve the God-Emperor, and all life is disposable before Him! If a million lives must be spent to save this planet from the grip of Chaos, then so be it!"

Arthur sighed. "And what do the people here think about that?" Beneath them, the armsmen were still backing away. Many of the Knights, ones in the house colors of King Tewdrig and even many of the Freeblades, similarly seemed unwilling to engage. Even one of those that was going to start the so-called pyre fell back, lifting its weapons in a manner close to surrender.

"Traitors and heretics if they refuse," the fanatic cried, desperate to keep a grip on the situation.

"Where is King Tewdrig?" Arthur asked, his voice harsh as thunder. "Does he know of this? Has he given the go-ahead for his people to be burned alive like criminals?"

"No Lord King Arthur!" answered a voice from an unexpected quarter. A Knight, with the gold trim that denoted the champion of the Caer. "King Tewdrig can barely move, can hardly speak. He suffered a stroke, and though Father Symmachus claims he got the order to begin this madness from King Tewdrig himself, none but him saw the King give the order!"

"Silence you dog!" Symmachus cried. "Choosing the bonds of earthly rule will avail you not!"

"Maybe," the champion snapped back, "but your sermons have been unintelligible nonsense, and I don't much care for this human sacrifice."

"Yet you've gone along with much," the priest screamed, "you think of your soul and make a choice!"

"I have." The champion started to move, and many of his men followed. Others seemed frozen, as if confused or indecisive. "I stand with King Arthur here, this madness must end!"

Father Symmachus seemed stunned into silence for a moment. Then his pale face erupted into a kind of battle frenzy. "Kill them! Kill the heretics!" He gestured violently.

The armsmen scattered, hurrying to get out of the way of the suddenly moving machines. Arthur winced as several were crushed underfoot. "Arms ready!" he called over vox.

One of the lighters of the pyre was coming towards him, flanked by two Freeblades. The fight was starting, a sudden burst of violent activity. At least, thought Arthur as he joined the battle, the fire wasn't directed towards the church and the innocents.


[Happy New Year! Thank you for continuing to read this over the course of years. I hope to have this book, detailing the rise of King Arthur and his first battles done by next year. And from there, well, the stars await.]

 

[Icipall]

Even on Avalon, where the Church had always held lesser power, the priests held some degree of strength over knight and noble, certainly over damsels and druids, the remnants of the indigenous religion.

Click to shrink...

It is funny that druids, aka the Mechanicus, are considered local, indigenous faith.

Right now, this priest had embraced the most desperate act of the Imperial Cult. There were branches of that seemingly singular organization that worshiped murder in the name of the Throne. Recorded history of Avalon being uncut off from the wider Imperium had included records of issues with such cults, such concepts.

Click to shrink...

Blood for the God Emperor. Skulls for the Golden Throne.

It was ten of these soldiers that first saw Arthur and his knights approach. The leader, helm off, his aged face pale, turned even whiter when he saw the three, led by King Arthur in the strange archeo-machine.

Click to shrink...

Good, maybe that will have them make a smart decision.

They stared up for a long moment, stunned into silence. They didn't even go for their weapons, they just stepped aside, pressing against the edges of the street to allow the knights' passage.

Click to shrink...

The soldiers moved quickly, seeming to flow away. Veterans, who could see a fight coming. Arthur allowed them. This would be between Knights, if it came to blows.

Click to shrink...

Smart decisions.

"No Lord King Arthur!" answered a voice from an unexpected quarter. A Knight, with the gold trim that denoted the champion of the Caer. "King Tewdrig can barely move, can hardly speak. He suffered a stroke, and though Father Symmachus claims he got the order to begin this madness from King Tewdrig himself, none but him saw the King give the order!"

Click to shrink...

Of course. The priest saw his opportunity and took it.

"Maybe," the champion snapped back, "but your sermons have been unintelligible nonsense, and I don't much care for this human sacrifice."

"Yet you've gone along with much," the priest screamed, "you think of your soul and make a choice!"

"I have." The champion started to move, and many of his men followed. Others seemed frozen, as if confused or indecisive. "I stand with King Arthur here, this madness must end!"

Click to shrink...

Yes, more smart decisions!

 

[coalface]

No champion, don't use up Avalon's planetary supply of common sense

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

It had gone badly very quickly, by Bedwyr's estimation. Though they were quite outnumbered, he hadn't been altogether worried, the Freeblades were ill-equipped and ill-maintained. He'd faced worse odds with less warriors in his time. He'd seen powerful sorcery unleashed.

The sudden turn of the Caer champion and good chunk of the local garrison had changed things, at least somewhat. They were still out-numbered, yet now it felt more possible, even as the chaos of battle and confusion of betrayal swept over the enemy.

It would be an easy thing in the confusion to target Father Symmachus. He had some shot left in his stubber, enough to rip apart the motorized podium and turn Symmachus and his close retinue to bloody rags. It was frightful in how tempting it was.

He held back from that violent act. Inaugurating King Arthur's first major skirmish with ventilating a priest, even one who had gone mad, probably was a foolish move. Instead, Bedwyr fired the last of his stubber shots at the massed group of mercenaries who were starting to move towards his allies. It caused no harm, but forced them to raise shields and move back for vital moments, allowing the regrouping of King Arthur's allies, and the escape of the armsmen who had survived the disaster.

Nearby, there was a burst of deadly light, as the fire that was supposed to have started the pyre was instead aimed at King Arthur, whose shield burned bright at the impact. The other, isolated but clearly wanting to follow the champion's lead, was set upon by two other fellows in bright house colors, very quickly being brought to the brink of being overwhelmed.

With a bellowed war-cry, Sir Balin hurtled himself at the freeblades, both swords flashing. Bedwyr wanted to scream at the man. Did he have no sense of battle-cohesion? Still, Balin was skilled, expertly avoiding crushing the few lingering armsmen as he attacked.

Cei barked an insult at the ones trying to tear apart their old fellow, hurtling at them with all speed, to force them to contend with their own cowardice.

Bedwyr shifted the bulk of his machine, focusing on the enemy firing on his King and friend, preparing to charge with his killing lance. He only managed a step before an enemy broke off from the rapidly growing melee to intercept him.

Uncaring of collateral, the knight, a house traitor, not a mercenary bandit, tore through buildings to get at Bedwyr. A sparking machine fist drove into Bedwyr's shield, and his throne rocked with the impact. He responded by swinging his spear in a gleaming arc, which was met by his enemy's own skilled block. From there it went into the all-to familiar dance of death, from which Bedwyr could derive no pleasure. This man wasn't a Chaos-mad killer, he was a fool caught up in Loyalist politics.

He was unable to focus on the battle around him anymore, so caught up in the battle was he. The tremors of their blows ran down his arms and to his body on the throne, his heart pounding violently. It was a complete stand-still, for now. He kept his eyes ready for an opening, though he knew it would come mostly from pure instinct.

***************​

The super-heated blast blew apart before Arthur's eyes like a firework. Caliburn's shield was strong, but past them he could see nothing. More fireworks burst before him, as more shots impacted.

Arthur closed his eyes, relying on other senses, impulses coming in from the machine sensors through the throne. It was near overwhelming as it flooded into his brain, and the dragon roared in rage.

There was a single opening, Arthur knew. He had a straight shot towards the enemy, who was content to empty his weapon of shots until the shield broke or he did. The skirmish by then would be over.

King Arthur split his concentration down two paths. One held the shield, the other started to move the hulking arms of Caliburn until their gigantic metal fingers touched. The strain was intense, all the while the shield shook, Arthur grunted involuntary syllables. The fingers came together, forming a single fist.

It required far less mental power to start his machine charging, the dragon itself did most of the work, determined to strike.

Fireworks boomed across the shield, even as he charged, increasing in frequency as he got closer and closer. Then the shots stopped, and there was a cry of horror. Then the fist impacted hard into the enemy's carapace, and Arthur felt it give way before the sheer power of his machine.

He tore something free, but tossed it down immediately. Whatever remained was quite dead. What a waste of a good machine, and a warrior trained to the throne. All for this madness, this fanaticism.

Finally, his eyes cleared, and he could see that destroyed husk of his enemy, the skirmish being turned into a brutal stalemate. Metal on metal rang through the street, and none could find purchase to force their way through the battle.

Arthur shifted his sight, to see the moving podium was starting to drive away, going for the only clear side street. Father Symmachus was screaming at his allies, waving his sword. He could turn any of the currently engaged battles, but that wouldn't end the skirmish.

The cockpit of Caliburn opened, and Arthur lept from it to the podium. His sword flashed to life, bright gold, he rolled as he had been taught by Myrddin to defuse the impact of his landing. He came up face to face with Father Symmachus and two acolytes in bright robes, both armed with power mauls. The weapons sparked violently, but neither of the young men seemed exactly excited to fight Arthur.

Symmachus seized one and shoved him at the King. "Kill him! Smite the Daemon-King!"

The man hurtled at Arthur, more from forced momentum than any willing charge, flailing with his maul and screaming a shrill terrified scream.

Arthur's sword flashed, and took the top of the maul off just above the terrified man's hand. His next blow drove a quick strike to the temple with the pommel. The man sagged boneless to the floor, and Arthur hoped he hadn't simply burst his brain.

The other looked at Arthur, then looked at Father Symmachus. Then he threw the maul to the ground, falling to his knees in surrender.

"Traitor, heretic!" wailed Symmachus over the continuing melee. He hurtled himself at Arthur, his chainsword singing its death song. The stroke came down, the wailing weapon almost distracting.

Arthur parried, and the razor fangs of the chainsword met the bright golden energy of his power sword. Somehow, the more physical weapon endured, and Symmachus broke away.

The mad priest was a swordsman of surprising skill, and Arthur found himself in the deadliest hand-to-hand fight of his career, without the protection of Caliburn's armor and shield.

Their weapons met again and again, even as the podium continued to move and swerve dangerously. "You are a fool," Arthur bit out between strikes, the defense unbreakable. "What was really the meaning of this, were you so determined to cling to power?"

"I defy you, daemon!" Symmachus yelled, stumbling a bit in his distraction. His defense faltered, and Arthur made a choice to not simply impale the man here and now. Killing him would be easy, an overly simple punishment.

Instead, Arthur struck like a viper at the man's sword hand, sending fingers flying. Yet impossibly, Symmachus gripped the sword with utter fanaticism, hollowing like a berserker. He struck again, and Arthur was almost surprised by the blow. He just managed to get his weapon into a block, and nearly was taken down by the force behind the blow.

"The Emperor Protects!" Symmachus screamed. His breath was rancid and he was spitting in his terror and pain.

"The Emperor Protects the Righteous, sir!" Arthur roared back. And he slammed his right foot forward, just as the podium swerved violently. Symmachus stumbled in surprise. Arthur forced the chainsword down with all his strength, and thundered forward. "And you are not righteous!" He slammed his head directly into the priest's chin, teeth clamping so hard they cracked and splintered.

The sword fell from Symmachus' ruined hands and he fell back, landing hard on his back. He lay still blood leaking from his mouth and hands.

Arthur panted heavily. He reached down and grabbed Symmachus by his robe, yanking him upright. He carried the man to the edge of the podium, holding him aloft and roaring at the top of his voice, "Enough! This is over! You will surrender now, and be judged fairly! But there will be no more battles today!"

And slowly the skirmish stopped. Little by little it stalled out, and weapons were lifted in truce. Caliburn, empty, loomed over all. Arthur was still holding the unconscious, bleeding, form of Father Symmachus as the battle ended. His face was set in fierce anger. There would be more to do, as King. He couldn't relax the battle tension yet.

 

[Mister Bad Guy]

I see those GaoGaiGar blu-rays are treating you well, friend.

 

[Icipall]

With a bellowed war-cry, Sir Balin hurtled himself at the freeblades, both swords flashing. Bedwyr wanted to scream at the man. Did he have no sense of battle-cohesion? Still, Balin was skilled, expertly avoiding crushing the few lingering armsmen as he attacked.

Click to shrink...

I think that chaos is his cohesion.

From there it went into the all-to familiar dance of death, from which Bedwyr could derive no pleasure. This man wasn't a Chaos-mad killer, he was a fool caught up in Loyalist politics.

Click to shrink...

Unfortunately, Bedwyr, there will be more where that came form.

The cockpit of Caliburn opened, and Arthur lept from it to the podium. His sword flashed to life, bright gold, he rolled as he had been taught by Myrddin to defuse the impact of his landing. He came up face to face with Father Symmachus and two acolytes in bright robes, both armed with power mauls. The weapons sparked violently, but neither of the young men seemed exactly excited to fight Arthur.

Click to shrink...

Easy to forget that an Imperial Knight is always two fighters. And pretty high tech weapons those acolytes have.

Their weapons met again and again, even as the podium continued to move and swerve dangerously. "You are a fool," Arthur bit out between strikes, the defense unbreakable. "What was really the meaning of this, were you so determined to cling to power?"

Click to shrink...

He's just a zealot.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

King Arthur dragged the senseless Father Symmachus down from the podium by his collar. The zealot was rangy and lean, and heavy despite that, corded with muscle like a trained warrior. Arthur still dragged him one-handed, as the other held the sword from the stone.

The skirmish had ended with the defeat of Symmachus. Several knights lay smoking, including the shattered remains of the one that had been torn open by King Arthur and Caiburn, the remains of its Throne to the side, smoking and bleeding. Surrounding it were several flying skulls, hideous necromantic things used by the druids. He hadn't seen any with Archemides, who favored his familiar, the cyborg owl. Waylen then.

Arthur walked through the battlefield, head held high, ignoring any sense of danger. No one moved to attack the evidently defenseless King. His sword raised high, and the unconscious zealot behind him was enough of a shield.

He was happy to see that all his companions had made it out unscathed. Bedwyr was backing away from his opponent, a house warrior who was muttering vocal apologies. Sir Balin was amid a small pile of destroyed Freeblades, the twin swords of his mount coated in reddish promethium. Cei, who had held off a group of the enemy, was glaring at Balin the Savage, the eyes of her mount flashing frightfully.

Arthur walked forward, avoiding the corpses of a few armsmen who had been unlucky enough to die in the fight, and made his way toward the kneeled Caliburn. The hands of the dragon were marred and scorched. Everyone gave it a wide berth, instinct overriding the knowledge that without a pilot, a machine was usually harmless.

Roughly, Arthur shoved the priest against the leg of the machine, and the man slumped, blood trickling from his mouth and hands. For a moment, Arthur stared at the priest, until, with a burble of blood, the man groaned weakly.

"You are strong, King," the champion said, voice stunned. "Father Symmachus is counted as a master swordsman." The man chuckled awkwardly. "Suppose you are now. One old tradition at least says the only way to become a master swordsman is to best another master in battle."

Arthur deactivated his sword. "I take no joy in this day," he boomed. "Fighting my fellow loyal Avalonians, nearly killing a priest of the Imperial Sect, wasting time I should be spending preparing my campaign against the Chaos Lords!"

There was silence, but for the pained groans of Symmachus. It was uncertain if it was out of shame, anger, or the sense of bitter defeat. Then, behind Arthur, the church door shook, and he could make out confused and frightened voices.

Arthur reignited his sword. "This will continue. Dismount, the lot of you." He didn't look to see if they obeyed. Instead, he walked to the door. "This is King Arthur," he declared loudly, so it could carry through the thick wood and metal. "Do not panic, for no harm will come to you. Stand away from the doors."

There were murmurs and the shuffling of feet, but the doors stopped shaking. Stepping closer, Arthur struck the chains, easily splitting them with the ancient blade. Still it took three strokes before the chains fell loose to the ground, and the doors were pulled open. Bedwyr had dismounted by this point, along with another man Arthur didn't recognize, and they helped pull it open.

The citizens streamed out, and didn't seem to stop for several long minutes. It was no stampede, they hadn't yet reached full panic. Several priests in red robes and other local leaders had helped keep them calm. Arthur's hands were gripped and kissed by an elderly priest, evidently the actual head of the sect in the area, the preacher of the town church.

The day wasn't without tragedy. The citizens had been packed in as tight as possible, and several of the elderly had died of heart attacks and suffocation. Several children had been separated from their parents, and it ended up being a small miracle that none of them had been killed and only one had been injured, and not seriously. One man, convinced it was hopeless, had driven a knife into his heart seconds before Arthur and his knights had arrived.

In all it took several miserable hours to get everything organized, and Symmachus had to be guarded by three knights to prevent anyone from seeking revenge. The priest had awoken at last, and was silent as he was dragged away.

The cars of Arthur and his entourage entered the city, and lent important support to the proceedings. Arthur watched as the flying skulls returned to their master, the looming Martian druid Waylen. He wondered what information the abominable things were giving their master.

He was thinking about that when a soft hand touched his shoulder. Arthur turned to see Guinevere looking up at him, her lovely eyes bright under her hood. She was still in disguise, so Arthur resisted the urge to take her in his arms. Agra was far away, split from him by politics, and even Gwen right here felt far away. Who knew how her father would react to his attempt to wed her, much less the fact they had been lovers for a few years now. Myrddin would tell him to not wage more war for a bride, but for Gwen and Agra, perhaps Arthur would.

He expected soft words of love. Instead, Gwen asked, "The priest, he still lives?"

Arthur nodded. "I ruined his hands, and lost him a few teeth, but he lives."

Guinevere relaxed, the tension Arthur hadn't even noticed before vanishing swiftly. "Thank the throne," she breathed, "I was afraid you would stumble into a controversy, my darling."

"I'm certain no one would mind. The crazy devil was about to burn down a church, full of civilians. People he was supposed to be protecting. I plan to have his head for that, and for whatever other madness he facilitated when he had the ear of King Tewdrig."

The Lady shook her head. "No Arthur. You can't kill him."

"Like hell I can't," Arthur hissed, "he almost killed hundreds today. Prince Meurig almost died himself. I'm not a bloodthirsty man, Gwen, you know this, but I have to follow my convictions here."

Gwen smiled, and placed a hand on his cheek. "I know. It is one of many things I love about you. But this must be handled according to a higher law." She leaned close, and whispered, "Don't worry. What I have in mind may in fact be worse than death for such a man. Just let me handle it, ok?"

No longer caring if they were seen, Arthur kissed her quickly on the lips. "Very well." He smiled. "I trust you in this, as I trust you in all things."

She returned the kiss, but they parted before anything more could be done. She went off, going to help with the civilians.

Arthur stood for a moment. The stink of oil alerted him to the approach of Waylen.

"If you aren't too busy pursuing your desire to mate," grated the ancient tech priest, "I have a matter of grave importance. It pertains to your battle."

"I do hope it met your expectations," Arthur replied neutrally.

"It was a waste. As most battles are, if they aren't against the true enemy," Waylen sniffed. "I speak of your maneuver. The two-fisted strike, the ripping of the Throne Mechanicum. Most intriguing, but quite clumsy, King Arthur."

"I apologize for being clumsy, then," Arthur said dryly.

"It is to be expected, for a mere flesh and blood mortal." Waylen didn't seem to register any sarcasm. "Still, there was the glimmer of something interesting. A way to disable a Knight, but without destroying the valuable Throne. Something not possible for many machines, for they are but clumsy tools. But Caliburn is something far more. Perhaps with the correct tool it could be managed. Do I have your permission, oh King?"

Arthur, of course, could very much detect the sarcasm. "You do." Perhaps something would come of it, perhaps not. Either way, it would give something for the mad magos to do.

Waylen bowed and left swiftly, followed by his familiars.

After a moment, Arthur walked to his car. Next would be matters of politics. It filled him with more fear, somehow, then the bloodsoaked battlefield he left.

 

[bookwyrm]

With of all the different insane internal rivalries and autonomous structures that are basically states within states that makes up the Imperium the great gubernatorial aristocracies must have spent all these millennia partially co-opting all the local planetary segments of the imperial Adepta into themselves, for them to actually succeed long term and secure their house's reign. So presumably the very last thing the line of ancient imperial Governors of Avalon would have kept through all these generations would have been all the shit they need to play the game and actually bend their court around them to their will, those writs and charters and letters patent being the real heart of their power. That makes my guess, that Guinevere has access to some king of holy bull from two millennia ago when the Governor's cousin was Cardinal of Avalon that allows her, as the Governor's representative, to invoke a conclave to try and, if found guilty, defrock a priest and subject them to damnatio memoriae as no longer a person, or ever have been a person, but a flagellating penitent.

 

[Icipall]

Arthur walked through the battlefield, head held high, ignoring any sense of danger. No one moved to attack the evidently defenseless King. His sword raised high, and the unconscious zealot behind him was enough of a shield.

Click to shrink...

JoJo walking through the streets, knowing no one would dare start any shit with a guy who ahs that big cajones.

Several priests in red robes and other local leaders had helped keep them calm. Arthur's hands were gripped and kissed by an elderly priest, evidently the actual head of the sect in the area, the preacher of the town church.

Click to shrink...

Well, this is nice.

Gwen smiled, and placed a hand on his cheek. "I know. It is one of many things I love about you. But this must be handled according to a higher law." She leaned close, and whispered, "Don't worry. What I have in mind may in fact be worse than death for such a man. Just let me handle it, ok?"

No longer caring if they were seen, Arthur kissed her quickly on the lips. "Very well." He smiled. "I trust you in this, as I trust you in all things."

Click to shrink...

This is probably going to be ugly.

"If you aren't too busy pursuing your desire to mate," grated the ancient tech priest, "I have a matter of grave importance. It pertains to your battle."

Click to shrink...

Hah!

After a moment, Arthur walked to his car. Next would be matters of politics. It filled him with more fear, somehow, then the bloodsoaked battlefield he left.

Click to shrink...

Arthur has very good instincts.

 

[MysticKnightJoe]

Bedwyr and Cei were passing her flask back and forth, in what was quickly becoming a post-battle ritual between the two. Cei had somehow gotten her hands on decent local liquor, and had filled her special flask with it. Of course, she never cleaned the thing, so Bedwyr was getting the taste of multiple conflicting drinks with every sip.

"Should have just taken off his head," Cei grumbled darkly. She snatched the flask back from him, gesturing wildly with it. "I don't understand it."

Bedwyr shrugged. "I'm not worrying about it."

"Neither am I, he should have just killed him," Cei snapped. She shoved the flask back onto her belt. "Bastard is a priest, and that gives him more protection than a King!"

"They are supposed to give spiritual protection and guidance," Bedwyr said calmly, "think of Bedwin, he's a good man."

"Bedwin is more knight than priest now," Cei muttered, "if the God-Emperor is supposed to protect us, why does he not simply destroy the Chaos Gods? Isn't he supposed to be the strongest God?"

Bedwyr looked behind Cei, and smiled. "Hello, Father."

The elderly local priest smiled back, sadly. "Hello, sir knight, Bedwyr Bedrydant."

Cei jumped, face bright red. "Father, er, well, no heresy meant of course, just, well…"

"No need," the old man replied softly, head bowed. "It is a thought that has crossed my mind many times. Especially these past five centuries. Father Thor is said to have achieved victory over Vangire, and even Lord Macsen, the first Pendragon, famed for his loathing of religion, was forced to acknowledge that. A grand high in the histories, but now we are forced to contend with madness and possible death, and the madness of those within the Church as desperation grows."

"And you grow desperate, Father?" Bedwyr asked.

"Of course," the old man said with a smile. "But today I think we saw something of great hope. I think even Father Symmachus will acknowledge that, once he comes back from the blow to his head."

"Fools will stay fools," Cei muttered to herself.

"I'm pleased the new Pendragon showed mercy," the elder continued, "I was worried he'd be twisted and cruel, but it seems he has some sense of right."

Bedwyr nodded. "He is a friend of mine, and Lady Cei's foster brother. We've known him for years, we wouldn't follow him if he was a violent madman."

"I confess curiosity," the old man said amicably, "I believe I will follow King Arthur's career most closely." He tugged at his long white beard. "Perhaps I could ask some questions of you? I suspect the old magician won't speak of his training techniques, but you certainly would have some insight."

Bedwyr recalled his involvement with some of that training, the mystical methods that Myrddin had employed, and quietly resolved to speak of that with no priest. "Glad to, but for now, I think, we should go on ahead and help with the trial."

"Why do I have to help?" Cei grumbled. Bedwyr lightly elbowed her side.

"Of course, I will engage you in conversation when you are less busy." The old man walked away, back to his attendants.

Cei gave him a somewhat irritated look. "I fell asleep during lectures about legal codes, why would Arthur need my help?"

"It isn't about that," Bedwyr muttered back, "we need to talk to Arthur before we start speaking to priests. What do you think would be considered acceptable, and what would be heresy worthy of excommunication or worse to such a man?"

She stared at him blankly. "Slept through my religious classes as well," she admitted with a rueful grin.

"Truly a miracle you stayed awake in any of them," Bedwyr replied.

"No kidding, every tutor was such a bore," she grunted, "except for Myrddin, of course."

************​

Father Symmachus was tied to the chair in the great hall, still unconscious. Arthur worried, briefly, that he had killed the man, or caused some permanent damage to his brain. Perhaps he would never wake.

The Court Doctor, a silver haired lady, perhaps trained at the Sorotitas' house of healing, was examining the man. "Such violence," she said, not in a disapproving tone, but in a tone that suggested she was quite familiar with the bodily harm one could inflict on another. "He should be quite alright, however. He's just being slow to wake."

"One must be awake to be held to trial," said Guinevere, from where she stood at Arthur's shoulder.

Myrddin stood up, the wizard shrouded in his robes. "Perhaps I could do something…"

"Your magic is not needed," snapped the doctor, giving the magician an evil eye.

"Smelling salts only, Lady," Myrddin said with a sly grin. He held out a small glass vial. "Nothing sorcerous about that, as you should know quite well."

She glared at him with enough intensity to burn, and mutely held out a hand. The vial was passed over, and she inspected it keenly. After a moment, she scowled and flushed in embarrassment. "It seems normal."

"Of course it is," Myrddin said cheerfully, "I took it from stores no one could have any issue with."

"Will anyone stand counsel for the defendant?" asked Guinevere, looking around the room. It was full of the men and women of the court, and all were grim faced. Many had been in the church, others had had family members or lovers about to be turned to ash. Even the ones who perhaps had some sympathy with Symmachus' breed of fanaticism would no doubt see the winds had changed quickly and suddenly.

The throne Arthur sat in was uncomfortable, it felt like a spear was digging into the bottom of his back. "If none stand for him, he will have to stand for himself."

The court doctor was still checking the vial over, suspiciously. Irritably, she snapped, "Very well, I suppose it will be me, then. If that is quite alright with the great High King."

"You are a member of the court, and therefore it is within your rights," Guinevere answered.

"I asked the King, who are you?"

Guinevere scowled, and it struck Arthur suddenly that her going after him was something of an impulse. She probably hadn't come up with a proper cover story, not one that explained why she stood behind and dispensed legal advice, at any rate. "My adviser," he cut in, "she speaks for me with my blessing."

"Behind the throne." The doctor smiled lightly. "Though better she sits at your arm, I think, young King."

Arthur fought back a blush. "Perhaps, Lady." He noticed that Symmachus' two acolytes were in the back, one with a bloody bandage around his head, the other with his head bowed as they were guarded by a pair of armsmen.

The doors of the hall thudded open, and Bedwyr and Cei stumbled in, rather loudly. It caused a ripple effect of irritation, but Arthur had to hold back a smile. His two companions moved to a pair of empty chairs, and Bedwyr gave him a quick gesture, a sign that they would have to talk, and soon.

The salts were waved in front of Symmachus' nose, and the priest awoke with a groan and a shudder. He looked around the room, then looked up at Arthur. He scowled, then hung his head.

"Do you say anything in your defense, or shall she solely speak for you?" Arthur asked, calmly.

Symmachus said nothing.

"Very well." He nodded to the Lady. "Give a defense, if you can."

Gwen nudged him from behind. "Best not show bias, though it may be hard, dear."

"Of course," Arthur replied, "I will listen to what is said."

The woman of the court, meanwhile, looked at her client with a frown. "Usually far more talkative," she said with a sigh, "right, well, I think I do have a defense, one you perhaps should have well considered."

"We have witnesses to the attempted massacre," said Arthur, "and we have attempted desecration of religious property, the subversion of a King, the attempted murder by proxy of good Prince Meurig."

"A King has the right to take any adviser he sees fit, as you demonstrate yourself. If judgment there is flawed, it is still ultimately the King's responsibility. As for the pyre, though no doubt cruel, you are ignoring the simple question: What if it had worked? What if the pyre had worked as intended, and had drawn the gaze and the aid of the God-Emperor?"

Arthur frowned. "That seems like a stretch, Lady. I for one saw no reason in what he tried to do, just a lot of terrified citizens about to be burned alive."

"Perhaps, but the God-Emperor does demand sacrifice, often of entire worlds, to fight against the great enemy."

"He does," Symmachus said at last. His voice was soft, and his eyes were dull and defeated.

Arthur clenched his fist tightly. "I know this," he declared coldly, "but…"

Guinevere interjected, her voice clear, "By this it is understood all must stand and fight, endure to the end. Not that we should engage in blood sacrifice." Arthur was thankful for this, certain what he was about to say wasn't going to be quite so cohesive.

"A swordsman of his calibur could fight and train others to fight as well," Arthur finally said, flowing with Guinevere. "An orator of his talents could rally the people to fight, to aid the effort to battle the enemy. Instead, such a man wasted his talents, clinging to power, performing a foolish act. If his act were righteous, if it were going to work, it wouldn't have been stopped by I, a loyal King of Avalon, follower and defender of the faith of humankind." He noticed that Symmachus was downcast. "I suspect he knows this. This is why he has said little. He knows he has been defeated."

"Punishment is necessary, but it must be tempered with mercy," Guinevere led from him. "We can ill afford to lose people. Thereby, Father Symmachus will be defrocked, by the authority vested in High King Arthur, Feudal Protector."

There were murmurs through the room, but no argument. Even the court doctor, who had been tasked with speaking in Symmachus' defense, nodded in agreement.

"He, however, won't become a mere citizen," Arthur said, "he shall be brought back to novice, to be retrained in the church." He smiled. Gwen had explained this part of the punishment. "Brother Bedwin, a personal friend of mine, and a knight of Avalon in his own right, may be half Symmachus' age, but he has much wisdom, perhaps some of that will rub off."

Everyone in the hall burst into laughter, and not just in an attempt to please the new High King. Symmachus himself finally had a strong reaction, turning bright red and almost shrinking completely with the shame of it. Even having his name stricken from all records might have been better, for at least that could have been turned to martyrdom. Arthur instead was treating him like a child, and dragging him quite securely under his thumb.

"I do hope he can endure it, as he did once before," Arthur said with a laugh. He rose to his feet. "I will remain here for a day, and settle what I can. But I must be off to gather my forces, and prepare. Any who wish an audience, best hurry." He left the hall, followed swiftly by Myrddin, Guinevere, Bedwyr, Cei, and the others of his retinue. As private a discussion as they could muster, a check on King Tewdrig, and then finally end this distraction.

More distractions were ahead, both foreseen and unforeseen.

 

[Icipall]

"Of course," the old man said with a smile. "But today I think we saw something of great hope. I think even Father Symmachus will acknowledge that, once he comes back from the blow to his head."

Click to shrink...

Somehow I doubt that.

Cei gave him a somewhat irritated look. "I fell asleep during lectures about legal codes, why would Arthur need my help?"

"It isn't about that," Bedwyr muttered back, "we need to talk to Arthur before we start speaking to priests. What do you think would be considered acceptable, and what would be heresy worthy of excommunication or worse to such a man?"

She stared at him blankly. "Slept through my religious classes as well," she admitted with a rueful grin.

Click to shrink...

Why am I not surprised.

The throne Arthur sat in was uncomfortable, it felt like a spear was digging into the bottom of his back.

Click to shrink...

If thrones were comfortable, people would grow content on them.

"A King has the right to take any adviser he sees fit, as you demonstrate yourself. If judgment there is flawed, it is still ultimately the King's responsibility. As for the pyre, though no doubt cruel, you are ignoring the simple question: What if it had worked? What if the pyre had worked as intended, and had drawn the gaze and the aid of the God-Emperor?"

Click to shrink...

And what kind of god's gaze would be drawn by massive human sacrifice?

Everyone in the hall burst into laughter, and not just in an attempt to please the new High King. Symmachus himself finally had a strong reaction, turning bright red and almost shrinking completely with the shame of it. Even having his name stricken from all records might have been better, for at least that could have been turned to martyrdom. Arthur instead was treating him like a child, and dragging him quite securely under his thumb.

Click to shrink...

Fitting punishment, I say.

followed swiftly by Myrddin, Guinevere, Bedwy, Cei, and

Click to shrink...

Bedwyr.

 

[bookwyrm]

I feel like the impulse to not just indulge in the old imperial standby of state-mandated martyrdom and penitent penal battalion shit, which would in itself be perpetuating the worst of the imperial cult from which came Symmachus, is on the right track. But after all those deaths, just being defrocked and reverted back to an acolyte as basically an intern/altar boy officially outside the actual orders of the church priesthood doesn't seem like quite enough. Unless Bedwin is going to remand that pyromaniac to a fully cloistered life within the walls of the church with industrious toil and constant prayer for the lives he took, until whatever miracle of redemption takes place?