- Location
- Vermont
Gawain that man is clearly unwell. I don't know if he can read a compass or ride a horse, let alone both at the same time. He's going to get so lost.
A Light in the Dark: A King Arthur/Warhammer 40k Imperial Knights Story
- Thread starter MysticKnightJoe
- Start date
- Crossover Fantasy
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
He'll be fine. He has a car so can just lie down as it rides.
At the Crossroads Part 4
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
The clearing just before the village had been cleared out by the local woodsmen a long time ago. The forests of Avalon were ancient and as strong as any knightley army, with nothing but axe and a simple sawmill maintained by a druid, the village had no hope of putting any more than it as a dent.
One of the woodsmen, a powerfully built man, was talking to Bedwyr now, yelling up at the heavy knight. "I trust you will keep whatever business you have away from the village, as it seems you are preparing for battle?"
"Of course," Bedwyr replied, trying to inject his smile through the booming speaker. "By the way, you don't have to yell, I can hear just fine."
"Apologies, Lord," the man stammered, backing away a bit. "And King Arthur, and Lady Cei, they won't cause harm to the town either?"
"Of course not. In fact, if all goes well, they won't even be fighting," Bedwyr replied calmly. Only he'd be fighting.
"Against Sir Lancelot?" the man asked, looking back and forth. Bedwyr could see beads of sweat running down his temples. "Champion of the World. You must admit it is a bad sign to be facing him."
"It is he who is persecuting this fight, not I," Bedwyr replied, "honor demands I meet him here, I'm afraid."
A youth, also in the clothes of a local woodsman, ran over. "Father," he called to the elder, "I see Sir Lancelot coming, he is accompanied by two others." He looked up at Bedwyr. Unlike his father, he seemed fascinated.
The older man mopped his brow, looking over at his son. He had an almost pained expression on his face. "Sir," he said, softly, "when you and the King, the young dragon, leave, would you be willing to take some of our young men with you. We've been taking in refugees, and are running low on resources to feed them. You'll need soldiers, after all, and they are good young lads, trained in the militia. You don't have to make them squires, of course, but even foot soldiers are a great honor."
"It will be up to King Arthur," Bedwyr replied. He looked over at the youth, who was still staring in awe at his great machine. Just barely thirteen, and comfortable with the longbow over his shoulder. "But I suspect in these times, he'll welcome the men."
"Is it true that you plan to wage war into the Chaoslands?" the boy blurted.
"War is already being waged there, we would simply be joining in," Bedwyr said. "We've played defensively for too long. My King will forge together all, and then we will attack as one."
The older woodsman turned away, probably to hide his less than positive thoughts on the matter. He reached out, and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "We'll get out of your way, sir."
"But I want to see the duel!" the boy cried.
"Enough, you'll see plenty no doubt, if you end up following King Arthur." There was a pained hitch in the man's voice as he said this, pulling his son way towards the village.
"Inescapable," Bedwyr said softly, shutting off the speaker. It was the same for himself, in the end. Such horrors and wonders he had seen. Yet, it hadn't been all bad. Even if he fell in battle now, he'd die with the knowledge he was doing what was right, and had left good in the world, even if that proved to be a fleeting thing.
He took a swig from his waterskin, and continued to wait. A bird landed on his pauldron, and chirped curiously at the warmachine. Bedwyr chomped down a brick of travel bread and watched the bird, trying to recall its species. It was blue, with a dark crest and a small beak. He knew the birds commonly used for heraldry, but the more innocent ones he wasn't so aware of. King Pellinore had had a book on ornithology, but he had never found the time to read it. He still had it.
He finished his simple meal, and a few more birds landed on the still knight. Letting his eyes drift almost close, he fell into the half-rest of a warrior. Still aware, even as he let his body rest, still staring down the road.
Almost, he wondered if Sir Lancelot wasn't coming. But the instant he considered this, a brightly decorated car rumbled down the road. And sure enough, it had the golden sea-eagle of Sir Lancelot's house upon its great banners, alongside the naked blue Lady of the Lake.
Just behind Lancelot were the other two, Sir Bors and Sir Dinadan. The birds took flight as Bedwyr stepped forward. "Gentlemen, what a pleasant surprise to see you this day."
Sir Bors was the spokesman. "You seem ready for battle, Sir Bedwyr."
"I had a feeling it would come to this," Bedwyr replied simply.
"Do you block the road, sir?" Sir Lancelot's voice was gruff and direct, but he still followed the traditional modes of politeness.
"I do not," Bedwyr answered, "if you wish to fight me, it will be you who will have to challenge me."
"So be it," Sir Lancelot said instantly.
"To yield, brother, I say!" Bors cried, trying to keep things restrained. "First blood at most."
"This will be in our mounts," Lancelot declared. Bedwyr could see Lancelot's. They were of a similar type, well matched.
"So be it," Bedwyr said. He shifted, setting the Power Lance. The birds behind him took off, and his own car backed away a fair distance with them. "To yield," he said grimly, "or to death if that is what it is."
Lancelot got ready in record time. The tip of his own machine's lance clanked against Bedwyr's in grim salute. He said nothing more.
Bedwyr made note that behind Lancelot, Dinadan started to drive toward the town, even as Bors stayed put. Neither of the Benoic brothers made note of this, and he smiled to himself. So all he had to do now was survive.
Dinadan was pleased he hadn't been noticed. The absurd dramatics of Sir Lancelot, and Sir Bors trying to mitigate them was obviously the center of attention at present.
So he directed his driver to make haste into the village as the two champions started to go at it, their weapons ringing out through the woods.
"Good bit of breakfast for all of us," Dinadan told his assembled underlings. "Those two will tire themselves out soon enough, and thank us for the food." Bedwyr would no doubt be taken as hostage, which was well enough, Dinadan liked the man, even if he was a bit of an idealist.
The village was of decent size, and had a good wooden wall, which of course opened wide even for him, a minor fellow. The people within were quiet, and the place seemed packed quite full, exhausted refugees mingling with the local woodsfolk.
Dinadan made a beeline straight for the local tavern, a colorful affair that would no doubt be cheerful and warm in more peaceful times, but was presently just rather depressing. Walking in, he smiled at the plump woman at the bar. "Any food for a knight at arms, good lady?"
"Some, though these are hard times." It wasn't the innkeeper who answered.
Dinadan blanched, and turned toward the voice. King Arthur himself sat at a table in a corner, helm off but otherwise fully ready for combat. Two women flanked him, Cei smirking nastily, and a tall woman in a hood, probably one of the damnable Damsel enchantresses.
Grinning, Dinadan swaggered over. "Well, it seems it is my lucky day. We've been chasing you all this time, young King."
Arthur quirked an eyebrow. He took a sip from a mug of rather sad looking ale. "Lucky? Do you intend to kill me, Sir Dinadan?"
Dinadan sat across from the other man. "Of course not. I'm with Sir Tristan, and Meliodas doesn't want you dead, just under some control. This whole sword in the stone business, well, you must understand it has caused quite the panic. Myrddin Wyllt and the pack of mages and druids and enchantresses who surround you, well, we know where the wind blows." He grinned at the hooded lady. She was pretty, under that hood. "No offense, Lady."
The woman smiled, a thin and cold one. "Sir Dinadan. They always did say you spoke before you think, though I've only met you a few times, I think it is quite clear that is false. You don't think at all."
Dinadan burst into laughter, raising a mug in toast. "I thought I recognized you, Lady Guinevere, I just wasn't certain until I heard your voice and wit. Your father must be livid right now, I must say."
"I'll worry about that, thank you," replied Guinevere.
"We'll work it out later," Dinadan said quickly, "once we get south with me." Even his cynical heart was thrilling. After all this, it was he who captured the young upstart King, not Gawain or Lancelot or Tristan. He might actually get praised for this.
"No," Arthur said simply, "I don't think we will be going with you."
"Come now, Arthur," Dinadan cried, "surely you understand. You are a bright lad. Not one to believe in fairy tales!"
"King Arthur," Arthur snapped, "that isn't a fairy tale, Sir Dinadan, this is reality. I intend to fight for this world, and I will get the support of all lords. I hope you will be included in that, eventually."
"So what, you plan to fight me here?" Dinadan asked. His heart was pounding. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. "Sword on sword or on horseback I'm probably a match for you." He really hoped Arthur didn't hear the quaver in his voice, or see the sweat on his palms.
But Arthur only smiled. "No, sir. We will fight just outside the walls, using our Knights."
"Fine," Dinadan said gruffly. The rumors said Arthur had gotten a hold of some strange horror from the depths of long lost time, but Dinadan counted himself better in a fight like this then with sword and lance. All he would have to do is make distance, and make it clear that Arthur would have to yield or be shot before he could do anything else. "Give me time to eat, please," he added. Perhaps Lancelot would finish up before the fight had to begin.
King Arthur gestured magnanimously to the poor fare before them. "I've already eaten myself." He rose, and started to walk to the door. "I'll meet you outside the gates, sir."
Dinadan chomped down some eggs, a bit of stale bread, and washed it down with weak sour ale. Arthur had already paid for the meal, so he stumbled out. He could hear the clanging of weapons from where he had come, so Bedwyr and Lancelot were still at it. So he wouldn't be bailed out here.
He mounted his Knight, the long-ranged focused machine, and the car rumbled across the main street. The back gate was much the same as the other, and was opened wide to take in the car and Dinadan.
King Arthur was waiting for him, in the ancient machine Caliburn. It was certainly a Knight, Dinadan realized, yet he was struck immediately by its slight distinctiveness. Instead of built-in weaponry, it had two massive, metal, hands that glinted in the setting sun. It was red and white and silver, and its eyes gleamed with an almost living fire as it eyed Dinadan down.
Yet what Dinadan found himself focusing on was that, rather than being unarmed as the rumors said, Caliburn was armed. It was nothing more than a long tapered point of metal, gripped in the right hand of the machine. It was pointed straight at him.
"An unusual weapon," Dinadan said. He himself had little ability to engage in melee.
"I'm testing something," replied King Arthur. The nail shifted a bit. "I did something imperfectly, last time I went to battle. This may allow me to pull something brilliant off, or so says Lord Waylen. Yet it is still just a test. You may be the first, sir."
Dinadan stared down the weapon, mind racing, trying to imagine what the young King could be planning to do with it. He realized suddenly that he wouldn't be able to get a shot off, in fact didn't even want to shoot at any rate. "I have too strong an imagination," he muttered.
"Pardon?" Arthur asked.
"Nothing, nothing," Dinadan cried.
"Best to end this, I think," Arthur continued, "will you step down from your car, sir?" The nail shifted down a little, Dinadan realized almost at Throne level, once he stepped down from the safety of his platform.
He'd have to open fire immediately, and hope he didn't kill by accident. It was the only way to get out of whatever was planned with the nail. He looked back, towards the other side of town. He could hear the sounds of the other duel, even from here. Sir Lancelot wouldn't be coming to bail him out.
Slowly, he stepped down, and stood on firm earth. "Let's get this over with," he said gruffly.
Almost the moment it began, Arthur began to move towards him. Smooth and far swifter than Dinadan anticipated, Caliburn was suddenly hurtling towards him. And instantly, Dinadan began to panic.
His cannon came up, and fired with a loud crack, and the machine before him sprang neatly to the side. It was a second for Dinadan to react, and he did the only thing that seemed logical. He lept through the city gate, past his car, and behind the wall. Away from Caliburn and its damned nail.
King Arthur stopped short. "I see that you yield, then?"
"No," Dinadan groaned with a sigh, "I run. I'd give you credit for playing into my head, but quite honestly, I think I did that myself."
Arthur shifted back into a non-combative stance. "You can come with me, or return to your companions. Your choice."
"I'll be headed back," responded Dinadan, as he remounted the car. "Damn it, but maybe I do believe in one or two fairy tales. At least how they relate to such things as yours." His car was already starting to move away, when he called back, "Did you really plan to separate us all like this?"
The King laughed. "This was, perhaps, the smoothest version of what we had. May all plans go well."
"It is rare," Dinadan replied, "I just think your opponents weren't really opponents today, sir."
Bedwyr and Lancelot were at a stalemate. Neither gave an inch before the other's lance, and only superficial damage had been dealt. Every time they'd shift and strike at each other, trying to find an opening, but never once getting through. Neither man was tired, and both had quickly set themselves to the task. They'd fight the rest of the night and the next morning if need be.
It was different from the last time he'd fought Lancelot, Bedwyr realized, as once again he parried a perfectly placed strike with a near instant move of his shield. Last time Lancelot had been drunk and cocky. But here and now, they were both fighting with absolute concentration, both determined to be viewed as the better.
Most of the village was here, watching the proceedings in wide-eyed awe from the walls. Bedwyr pulled away from his rival, stepping back and readying his lance again. "I'm pleased you fight me as an equal now, sir," he said.
"An equal under chivalry," Lancelot replied, "but I'll prove I'm stronger than you in combat, Sir Bedwyr."
"It seems to me what will decide this is who is willing to fight with the most courage, who will fight the longest, even beyond the demands of his body."
"That too is part of battle," growled Lancelot, "I don't intend to yield, do you?"
Bedwyr looked past his opponent, and smiled. "I'm afraid you won't have a choice."
What?" Lancelot turned.
Sir Dinadan drove through the gate, and right past Bors and Lancelot.
"Sir Dinadan?" Bors asked, visibly confused.
"I fled from King Arthur," Dinadan admitted stiffly. "I'm going back to our camp."
"Throne!" Sir Lancelot cried. He looked back to Bedwyr. "You've won. This was your plan the whole time."
Bedwyr lowered his lance. "This hasn't ended. I haven't won yet, sir. Let's consider this a hold. We will finish this under better circumstances."
"Fine," Lancelot groaned, "fine."
And he and Bors pulled away from the gate. Swiftly, they were gone.
Bedwyr was slow to relax. They'd won today, but it had been close. Much could have gone wrong.
He started to leave as well. Arthur would already be rushing away from the village. He'd be behind now, and once they regrouped, the people who were after them would start again. By honor they had gotten a head start, but that wouldn't last forever. Only until the swords caught up again.
One of the woodsmen, a powerfully built man, was talking to Bedwyr now, yelling up at the heavy knight. "I trust you will keep whatever business you have away from the village, as it seems you are preparing for battle?"
"Of course," Bedwyr replied, trying to inject his smile through the booming speaker. "By the way, you don't have to yell, I can hear just fine."
"Apologies, Lord," the man stammered, backing away a bit. "And King Arthur, and Lady Cei, they won't cause harm to the town either?"
"Of course not. In fact, if all goes well, they won't even be fighting," Bedwyr replied calmly. Only he'd be fighting.
"Against Sir Lancelot?" the man asked, looking back and forth. Bedwyr could see beads of sweat running down his temples. "Champion of the World. You must admit it is a bad sign to be facing him."
"It is he who is persecuting this fight, not I," Bedwyr replied, "honor demands I meet him here, I'm afraid."
A youth, also in the clothes of a local woodsman, ran over. "Father," he called to the elder, "I see Sir Lancelot coming, he is accompanied by two others." He looked up at Bedwyr. Unlike his father, he seemed fascinated.
The older man mopped his brow, looking over at his son. He had an almost pained expression on his face. "Sir," he said, softly, "when you and the King, the young dragon, leave, would you be willing to take some of our young men with you. We've been taking in refugees, and are running low on resources to feed them. You'll need soldiers, after all, and they are good young lads, trained in the militia. You don't have to make them squires, of course, but even foot soldiers are a great honor."
"It will be up to King Arthur," Bedwyr replied. He looked over at the youth, who was still staring in awe at his great machine. Just barely thirteen, and comfortable with the longbow over his shoulder. "But I suspect in these times, he'll welcome the men."
"Is it true that you plan to wage war into the Chaoslands?" the boy blurted.
"War is already being waged there, we would simply be joining in," Bedwyr said. "We've played defensively for too long. My King will forge together all, and then we will attack as one."
The older woodsman turned away, probably to hide his less than positive thoughts on the matter. He reached out, and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "We'll get out of your way, sir."
"But I want to see the duel!" the boy cried.
"Enough, you'll see plenty no doubt, if you end up following King Arthur." There was a pained hitch in the man's voice as he said this, pulling his son way towards the village.
"Inescapable," Bedwyr said softly, shutting off the speaker. It was the same for himself, in the end. Such horrors and wonders he had seen. Yet, it hadn't been all bad. Even if he fell in battle now, he'd die with the knowledge he was doing what was right, and had left good in the world, even if that proved to be a fleeting thing.
He took a swig from his waterskin, and continued to wait. A bird landed on his pauldron, and chirped curiously at the warmachine. Bedwyr chomped down a brick of travel bread and watched the bird, trying to recall its species. It was blue, with a dark crest and a small beak. He knew the birds commonly used for heraldry, but the more innocent ones he wasn't so aware of. King Pellinore had had a book on ornithology, but he had never found the time to read it. He still had it.
He finished his simple meal, and a few more birds landed on the still knight. Letting his eyes drift almost close, he fell into the half-rest of a warrior. Still aware, even as he let his body rest, still staring down the road.
Almost, he wondered if Sir Lancelot wasn't coming. But the instant he considered this, a brightly decorated car rumbled down the road. And sure enough, it had the golden sea-eagle of Sir Lancelot's house upon its great banners, alongside the naked blue Lady of the Lake.
Just behind Lancelot were the other two, Sir Bors and Sir Dinadan. The birds took flight as Bedwyr stepped forward. "Gentlemen, what a pleasant surprise to see you this day."
Sir Bors was the spokesman. "You seem ready for battle, Sir Bedwyr."
"I had a feeling it would come to this," Bedwyr replied simply.
"Do you block the road, sir?" Sir Lancelot's voice was gruff and direct, but he still followed the traditional modes of politeness.
"I do not," Bedwyr answered, "if you wish to fight me, it will be you who will have to challenge me."
"So be it," Sir Lancelot said instantly.
"To yield, brother, I say!" Bors cried, trying to keep things restrained. "First blood at most."
"This will be in our mounts," Lancelot declared. Bedwyr could see Lancelot's. They were of a similar type, well matched.
"So be it," Bedwyr said. He shifted, setting the Power Lance. The birds behind him took off, and his own car backed away a fair distance with them. "To yield," he said grimly, "or to death if that is what it is."
Lancelot got ready in record time. The tip of his own machine's lance clanked against Bedwyr's in grim salute. He said nothing more.
Bedwyr made note that behind Lancelot, Dinadan started to drive toward the town, even as Bors stayed put. Neither of the Benoic brothers made note of this, and he smiled to himself. So all he had to do now was survive.
******************
Dinadan was pleased he hadn't been noticed. The absurd dramatics of Sir Lancelot, and Sir Bors trying to mitigate them was obviously the center of attention at present.
So he directed his driver to make haste into the village as the two champions started to go at it, their weapons ringing out through the woods.
"Good bit of breakfast for all of us," Dinadan told his assembled underlings. "Those two will tire themselves out soon enough, and thank us for the food." Bedwyr would no doubt be taken as hostage, which was well enough, Dinadan liked the man, even if he was a bit of an idealist.
The village was of decent size, and had a good wooden wall, which of course opened wide even for him, a minor fellow. The people within were quiet, and the place seemed packed quite full, exhausted refugees mingling with the local woodsfolk.
Dinadan made a beeline straight for the local tavern, a colorful affair that would no doubt be cheerful and warm in more peaceful times, but was presently just rather depressing. Walking in, he smiled at the plump woman at the bar. "Any food for a knight at arms, good lady?"
"Some, though these are hard times." It wasn't the innkeeper who answered.
Dinadan blanched, and turned toward the voice. King Arthur himself sat at a table in a corner, helm off but otherwise fully ready for combat. Two women flanked him, Cei smirking nastily, and a tall woman in a hood, probably one of the damnable Damsel enchantresses.
Grinning, Dinadan swaggered over. "Well, it seems it is my lucky day. We've been chasing you all this time, young King."
Arthur quirked an eyebrow. He took a sip from a mug of rather sad looking ale. "Lucky? Do you intend to kill me, Sir Dinadan?"
Dinadan sat across from the other man. "Of course not. I'm with Sir Tristan, and Meliodas doesn't want you dead, just under some control. This whole sword in the stone business, well, you must understand it has caused quite the panic. Myrddin Wyllt and the pack of mages and druids and enchantresses who surround you, well, we know where the wind blows." He grinned at the hooded lady. She was pretty, under that hood. "No offense, Lady."
The woman smiled, a thin and cold one. "Sir Dinadan. They always did say you spoke before you think, though I've only met you a few times, I think it is quite clear that is false. You don't think at all."
Dinadan burst into laughter, raising a mug in toast. "I thought I recognized you, Lady Guinevere, I just wasn't certain until I heard your voice and wit. Your father must be livid right now, I must say."
"I'll worry about that, thank you," replied Guinevere.
"We'll work it out later," Dinadan said quickly, "once we get south with me." Even his cynical heart was thrilling. After all this, it was he who captured the young upstart King, not Gawain or Lancelot or Tristan. He might actually get praised for this.
"No," Arthur said simply, "I don't think we will be going with you."
"Come now, Arthur," Dinadan cried, "surely you understand. You are a bright lad. Not one to believe in fairy tales!"
"King Arthur," Arthur snapped, "that isn't a fairy tale, Sir Dinadan, this is reality. I intend to fight for this world, and I will get the support of all lords. I hope you will be included in that, eventually."
"So what, you plan to fight me here?" Dinadan asked. His heart was pounding. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. "Sword on sword or on horseback I'm probably a match for you." He really hoped Arthur didn't hear the quaver in his voice, or see the sweat on his palms.
But Arthur only smiled. "No, sir. We will fight just outside the walls, using our Knights."
"Fine," Dinadan said gruffly. The rumors said Arthur had gotten a hold of some strange horror from the depths of long lost time, but Dinadan counted himself better in a fight like this then with sword and lance. All he would have to do is make distance, and make it clear that Arthur would have to yield or be shot before he could do anything else. "Give me time to eat, please," he added. Perhaps Lancelot would finish up before the fight had to begin.
King Arthur gestured magnanimously to the poor fare before them. "I've already eaten myself." He rose, and started to walk to the door. "I'll meet you outside the gates, sir."
Dinadan chomped down some eggs, a bit of stale bread, and washed it down with weak sour ale. Arthur had already paid for the meal, so he stumbled out. He could hear the clanging of weapons from where he had come, so Bedwyr and Lancelot were still at it. So he wouldn't be bailed out here.
He mounted his Knight, the long-ranged focused machine, and the car rumbled across the main street. The back gate was much the same as the other, and was opened wide to take in the car and Dinadan.
King Arthur was waiting for him, in the ancient machine Caliburn. It was certainly a Knight, Dinadan realized, yet he was struck immediately by its slight distinctiveness. Instead of built-in weaponry, it had two massive, metal, hands that glinted in the setting sun. It was red and white and silver, and its eyes gleamed with an almost living fire as it eyed Dinadan down.
Yet what Dinadan found himself focusing on was that, rather than being unarmed as the rumors said, Caliburn was armed. It was nothing more than a long tapered point of metal, gripped in the right hand of the machine. It was pointed straight at him.
"An unusual weapon," Dinadan said. He himself had little ability to engage in melee.
"I'm testing something," replied King Arthur. The nail shifted a bit. "I did something imperfectly, last time I went to battle. This may allow me to pull something brilliant off, or so says Lord Waylen. Yet it is still just a test. You may be the first, sir."
Dinadan stared down the weapon, mind racing, trying to imagine what the young King could be planning to do with it. He realized suddenly that he wouldn't be able to get a shot off, in fact didn't even want to shoot at any rate. "I have too strong an imagination," he muttered.
"Pardon?" Arthur asked.
"Nothing, nothing," Dinadan cried.
"Best to end this, I think," Arthur continued, "will you step down from your car, sir?" The nail shifted down a little, Dinadan realized almost at Throne level, once he stepped down from the safety of his platform.
He'd have to open fire immediately, and hope he didn't kill by accident. It was the only way to get out of whatever was planned with the nail. He looked back, towards the other side of town. He could hear the sounds of the other duel, even from here. Sir Lancelot wouldn't be coming to bail him out.
Slowly, he stepped down, and stood on firm earth. "Let's get this over with," he said gruffly.
Almost the moment it began, Arthur began to move towards him. Smooth and far swifter than Dinadan anticipated, Caliburn was suddenly hurtling towards him. And instantly, Dinadan began to panic.
His cannon came up, and fired with a loud crack, and the machine before him sprang neatly to the side. It was a second for Dinadan to react, and he did the only thing that seemed logical. He lept through the city gate, past his car, and behind the wall. Away from Caliburn and its damned nail.
King Arthur stopped short. "I see that you yield, then?"
"No," Dinadan groaned with a sigh, "I run. I'd give you credit for playing into my head, but quite honestly, I think I did that myself."
Arthur shifted back into a non-combative stance. "You can come with me, or return to your companions. Your choice."
"I'll be headed back," responded Dinadan, as he remounted the car. "Damn it, but maybe I do believe in one or two fairy tales. At least how they relate to such things as yours." His car was already starting to move away, when he called back, "Did you really plan to separate us all like this?"
The King laughed. "This was, perhaps, the smoothest version of what we had. May all plans go well."
"It is rare," Dinadan replied, "I just think your opponents weren't really opponents today, sir."
*************
Bedwyr and Lancelot were at a stalemate. Neither gave an inch before the other's lance, and only superficial damage had been dealt. Every time they'd shift and strike at each other, trying to find an opening, but never once getting through. Neither man was tired, and both had quickly set themselves to the task. They'd fight the rest of the night and the next morning if need be.
It was different from the last time he'd fought Lancelot, Bedwyr realized, as once again he parried a perfectly placed strike with a near instant move of his shield. Last time Lancelot had been drunk and cocky. But here and now, they were both fighting with absolute concentration, both determined to be viewed as the better.
Most of the village was here, watching the proceedings in wide-eyed awe from the walls. Bedwyr pulled away from his rival, stepping back and readying his lance again. "I'm pleased you fight me as an equal now, sir," he said.
"An equal under chivalry," Lancelot replied, "but I'll prove I'm stronger than you in combat, Sir Bedwyr."
"It seems to me what will decide this is who is willing to fight with the most courage, who will fight the longest, even beyond the demands of his body."
"That too is part of battle," growled Lancelot, "I don't intend to yield, do you?"
Bedwyr looked past his opponent, and smiled. "I'm afraid you won't have a choice."
What?" Lancelot turned.
Sir Dinadan drove through the gate, and right past Bors and Lancelot.
"Sir Dinadan?" Bors asked, visibly confused.
"I fled from King Arthur," Dinadan admitted stiffly. "I'm going back to our camp."
"Throne!" Sir Lancelot cried. He looked back to Bedwyr. "You've won. This was your plan the whole time."
Bedwyr lowered his lance. "This hasn't ended. I haven't won yet, sir. Let's consider this a hold. We will finish this under better circumstances."
"Fine," Lancelot groaned, "fine."
And he and Bors pulled away from the gate. Swiftly, they were gone.
Bedwyr was slow to relax. They'd won today, but it had been close. Much could have gone wrong.
He started to leave as well. Arthur would already be rushing away from the village. He'd be behind now, and once they regrouped, the people who were after them would start again. By honor they had gotten a head start, but that wouldn't last forever. Only until the swords caught up again.
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
But if you live, you have a chance to do much more good.
He really wants this fight.
And they say - that Dinadan's heart missed three beats that day.
Yeah, keep dreaming.
A duel people will tell tales for generations.
King Caradoc's Gambit Part 1
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
A crow with three legs and two beaks was perched on the rapidly decaying corpse of the heretic priest. The tortured thing was trying to pick at the remaining soft tissue, but its mangled face made that difficult. It was trying to move its head just so when the throwing knife took it in the belly. It fell to the ground, dead instantly, without a sound.
"Poor thing," said the handmaid who'd thrown the knife. She had a tiny, cute nose that squished tightly with her frown. "My mother had a pet crow. She'd let it fly out of its cage, and it would always come back."
Diane was pleased she'd been able to follow all that. "They are smart birds," she said haltingly in the local tongue.
The eldest of Queen Ysave's attendants scowled darkly and walked over to the dead bird. She gripped the knife hilt and lifted it up, making sure to not touch the corpse. "Aye, smart enough to be servants of evil as well as good. This one looked to be growing an extra body, a double-head. An ill omen, that is what it is."
Queen Ysave paled. "What shall be done?"
"Burn it. To ash. Away from anyone, preferably somewhere sacred, if anywhere sacred exists in this world, excepting the First Church where they say King Arthur pulled the Sword from the Stone." She performed the sign of the Aquilla. "And the hidden temple of the Lady Herself."
"Don't let Father Dylan hear you say that," giggled the knife-thrower. "He'll try to put you in stockade."
"It just emptied, so best not waste it!" The old lady cackled. The traitor merchant had indeed been pulled from the stockade this morning, somehow alive, but exhausted and penniless. He was recuperating in the castle now, as King Caradoc was a fair man.
Brandaine made a frustrated sound next to Diane. "I can't understand, they are talking too quickly," she hissed to Diane, "what is happening?"
"They say the crow is touched by the ruinous powers," Diane replied, a bit tiredly. She fiddled with the distaff, Queen Ysave had been trying to teach her how to spin.
Brandaine looked back toward the two-beaked crow, which the old lady was showing to the guards. "We need to get out of here, to the ship. How are we going to escape to Sir Pelleas and the barbarian when we have the chance?"
"I don't know." From what Diane could tell, Caradoc's plan was to simply refuse entry to the knight and his companions. It was crude, but effective, and with his troops outnumbering the three, a siege would be decidedly unviable.
Outside the gates there was a clangor of trumpets, a triumphant cheer. Diane turned toward the gate, expecting the noises to devolve into confusion. Instead, she was startled as the great doors started to creek open.
"What the frak?" Brandaine cried, getting to her feet.
Diane seized her shoulder. "Whatever is happening, it is good. This might give us a chance to slip out."
The King himself stepped out of the hall, accompanied by a very nervous Gildas. The man was in full armor, visor up revealing his grim bearded face. He'd almost look ridiculous, if Diane hadn't seen him kill, and knew this world demanded that of him constantly.
Sir Pelleas wasn't in such warlike garb, just a coat and hat, though his sword was, as ever, at his side. He stepped forward, frowning. "King Caradoc," he said calmly, "this is farewell. We need to be on our way."
Caradoc didn't move. "I need answers, Pelleas. Who are you, really? And how has the passage of long years not touched you?"
Pelleas blinked. "I assure you, I have just aged gracefully. Come now, I'm the same man you knew."
"Don't you lie," growled Caradoc, "I'm not a blind fool. Not a wrinkle, not a lost bit of hair, you haven't even gained a pound of weight. Perhaps you've aged a year, but not a day more."
Diane realized that the entire court wasn't paying any attention to her. They were all watching the two knights raptly. She grabbed Brandaine's arm. "Come on, before they start to look anywhere."
Brandaine blinked, and nodded. They stumbled off, trying to loop around. They made it to the car, and were immediately greeted by Herne.
The big man was frowning at the growing turmoil. "You two best be careful," he said, "this has gone personal. It has to be settled."
"Why not just leave?" Brandaine asked, looking back at the two knights.
"Sir Pelleas wouldn't stand for it. I am not like him anymore, but when challenged a knight has to rise to it, and to the victor goes the spoils."
"But she is right." Manw appeared over the huntsman's shoulders. "We aren't like Sir Pelleas. We don't have to follow the Code Chivalric."
"Yet he is our friend, and it would be poor form to steal his car and belongings." Herne looked behind. "Besides. We are a bit pinned. He could just close the door."
"He was supposed to just keep you out altogether," Diane said, "he changed his mind for some reason."
Before either of the two could respond, Pelleas walked over, frowning. "He has agreed to let me get my armor on, at least. He wants us to settle this with swords."
"Why not just explain?" Diane asked softly. "You could even make an offer, even. He might want to get his family off-world."
Pelleas gave her a confused look. "It would be hard to explain," he admitted.
Brandaine crossed her arms, scowling. "Try. Do you want to get into a sword-fight with that man?"
"I can hardly explain it, because I don't have the tongue for it!" Pelleas made his way to the car. "We just need to get there as soon as possible, so someone who understands can explain it."
"You have a way off planet" Brandaine growled, frustrated, "how hard is that to explain?"
Pelleas stopped for a moment at the door. He looked back at her, confused. "Even if we did, where would we go?"
Gildas saw the imperium castaways snuck off to speak with the three champions of the Damsels. He felt uncomfortable being squire right now. Even more so than apprentice to Father Dylan. He knew full well he was too physically frail to ever survive the Becoming.
King Caradoc had been patient with him through his clumsy endeavor, until eventually another servant had to come and help. The King was focused too much on his desire to challenge Sir Pelleas, to settle the budding grudge.
"What if he runs?" Gildas asked suddenly.
Caradoc looked down at him. For a moment, he looked like a demigod, enraged and ready to kill a hundred men. Then he sighed, and suddenly he looked old and tired. "He can leave. If that is what he chooses." He nodded to the women. "Seems they have chosen to go with him as well, though damned if I know why. There is something strange to these happenings, Gildas, as you know well."
But the car didn't move. Then, at last, Pelleas emerged. He was in full armor, sword in hand, visor down. His armor was lighter than Caradoc's, more molded to his body, ornate, painted bright blue, gilded, with a large codpiece. Over it he wore a white surcoat, a featureless women's face on the center, golden hair billowing as if underwater.
Caradoc slapped down his visor, but not before Gildas saw a tear running down his cheek. "So, Sir Pelleas is still a man of honor," the King said softly, and stepped forward.
The court formed a circle around the two men. The air was tingling with excitement. Gildas from here could see the rune on Pelleas' sword hilt. He almost warned King Caradoc that Pelleas held a sword of power, but Pelleas didn't turn it on. In fact he avoided the rune entirely.
"What is this for?" Pelleas asked, voice calm and level.
"A test," Caradoc growled, "to see if you really are still the same man I knew." He pointed his sword at Pelleas. "Knights learn about their fellows through the clash of sword on sword. So come at me, and show your worth!"
"If you so insist," Pelleas said. Gildas swallowed. His hand was so close to the activation rune. Such a weapon would go through even a King's armor with ease. But still Pelleas didn't turn on the weapon. All he did was come forward.
The two men clashed in the middle of the yard with a clang of metal on metal, swords cracking into shields. There was silence among the witnesses. This was not a fight of joy.
Queen Ysave was pale, hands over her belly. Gildas could see Sir Pelleas' companions across the yard, all four watching raptly.
And the two knights fighting clearly saw nothing else but their foe, and the sword flashing again and again at them. Neither gave an inch.
Gildas watched Sir Pelleas' hand near the rune, and made the sign of the Aquilla. He wondered if he was the only one here who knew that at any moment, Pelleas could go for the kill with little to stop him. He prayed quietly, inaudible over the sound of combat.
"Poor thing," said the handmaid who'd thrown the knife. She had a tiny, cute nose that squished tightly with her frown. "My mother had a pet crow. She'd let it fly out of its cage, and it would always come back."
Diane was pleased she'd been able to follow all that. "They are smart birds," she said haltingly in the local tongue.
The eldest of Queen Ysave's attendants scowled darkly and walked over to the dead bird. She gripped the knife hilt and lifted it up, making sure to not touch the corpse. "Aye, smart enough to be servants of evil as well as good. This one looked to be growing an extra body, a double-head. An ill omen, that is what it is."
Queen Ysave paled. "What shall be done?"
"Burn it. To ash. Away from anyone, preferably somewhere sacred, if anywhere sacred exists in this world, excepting the First Church where they say King Arthur pulled the Sword from the Stone." She performed the sign of the Aquilla. "And the hidden temple of the Lady Herself."
"Don't let Father Dylan hear you say that," giggled the knife-thrower. "He'll try to put you in stockade."
"It just emptied, so best not waste it!" The old lady cackled. The traitor merchant had indeed been pulled from the stockade this morning, somehow alive, but exhausted and penniless. He was recuperating in the castle now, as King Caradoc was a fair man.
Brandaine made a frustrated sound next to Diane. "I can't understand, they are talking too quickly," she hissed to Diane, "what is happening?"
"They say the crow is touched by the ruinous powers," Diane replied, a bit tiredly. She fiddled with the distaff, Queen Ysave had been trying to teach her how to spin.
Brandaine looked back toward the two-beaked crow, which the old lady was showing to the guards. "We need to get out of here, to the ship. How are we going to escape to Sir Pelleas and the barbarian when we have the chance?"
"I don't know." From what Diane could tell, Caradoc's plan was to simply refuse entry to the knight and his companions. It was crude, but effective, and with his troops outnumbering the three, a siege would be decidedly unviable.
Outside the gates there was a clangor of trumpets, a triumphant cheer. Diane turned toward the gate, expecting the noises to devolve into confusion. Instead, she was startled as the great doors started to creek open.
"What the frak?" Brandaine cried, getting to her feet.
Diane seized her shoulder. "Whatever is happening, it is good. This might give us a chance to slip out."
The King himself stepped out of the hall, accompanied by a very nervous Gildas. The man was in full armor, visor up revealing his grim bearded face. He'd almost look ridiculous, if Diane hadn't seen him kill, and knew this world demanded that of him constantly.
Sir Pelleas wasn't in such warlike garb, just a coat and hat, though his sword was, as ever, at his side. He stepped forward, frowning. "King Caradoc," he said calmly, "this is farewell. We need to be on our way."
Caradoc didn't move. "I need answers, Pelleas. Who are you, really? And how has the passage of long years not touched you?"
Pelleas blinked. "I assure you, I have just aged gracefully. Come now, I'm the same man you knew."
"Don't you lie," growled Caradoc, "I'm not a blind fool. Not a wrinkle, not a lost bit of hair, you haven't even gained a pound of weight. Perhaps you've aged a year, but not a day more."
Diane realized that the entire court wasn't paying any attention to her. They were all watching the two knights raptly. She grabbed Brandaine's arm. "Come on, before they start to look anywhere."
Brandaine blinked, and nodded. They stumbled off, trying to loop around. They made it to the car, and were immediately greeted by Herne.
The big man was frowning at the growing turmoil. "You two best be careful," he said, "this has gone personal. It has to be settled."
"Why not just leave?" Brandaine asked, looking back at the two knights.
"Sir Pelleas wouldn't stand for it. I am not like him anymore, but when challenged a knight has to rise to it, and to the victor goes the spoils."
"But she is right." Manw appeared over the huntsman's shoulders. "We aren't like Sir Pelleas. We don't have to follow the Code Chivalric."
"Yet he is our friend, and it would be poor form to steal his car and belongings." Herne looked behind. "Besides. We are a bit pinned. He could just close the door."
"He was supposed to just keep you out altogether," Diane said, "he changed his mind for some reason."
Before either of the two could respond, Pelleas walked over, frowning. "He has agreed to let me get my armor on, at least. He wants us to settle this with swords."
"Why not just explain?" Diane asked softly. "You could even make an offer, even. He might want to get his family off-world."
Pelleas gave her a confused look. "It would be hard to explain," he admitted.
Brandaine crossed her arms, scowling. "Try. Do you want to get into a sword-fight with that man?"
"I can hardly explain it, because I don't have the tongue for it!" Pelleas made his way to the car. "We just need to get there as soon as possible, so someone who understands can explain it."
"You have a way off planet" Brandaine growled, frustrated, "how hard is that to explain?"
Pelleas stopped for a moment at the door. He looked back at her, confused. "Even if we did, where would we go?"
*************
Gildas saw the imperium castaways snuck off to speak with the three champions of the Damsels. He felt uncomfortable being squire right now. Even more so than apprentice to Father Dylan. He knew full well he was too physically frail to ever survive the Becoming.
King Caradoc had been patient with him through his clumsy endeavor, until eventually another servant had to come and help. The King was focused too much on his desire to challenge Sir Pelleas, to settle the budding grudge.
"What if he runs?" Gildas asked suddenly.
Caradoc looked down at him. For a moment, he looked like a demigod, enraged and ready to kill a hundred men. Then he sighed, and suddenly he looked old and tired. "He can leave. If that is what he chooses." He nodded to the women. "Seems they have chosen to go with him as well, though damned if I know why. There is something strange to these happenings, Gildas, as you know well."
But the car didn't move. Then, at last, Pelleas emerged. He was in full armor, sword in hand, visor down. His armor was lighter than Caradoc's, more molded to his body, ornate, painted bright blue, gilded, with a large codpiece. Over it he wore a white surcoat, a featureless women's face on the center, golden hair billowing as if underwater.
Caradoc slapped down his visor, but not before Gildas saw a tear running down his cheek. "So, Sir Pelleas is still a man of honor," the King said softly, and stepped forward.
The court formed a circle around the two men. The air was tingling with excitement. Gildas from here could see the rune on Pelleas' sword hilt. He almost warned King Caradoc that Pelleas held a sword of power, but Pelleas didn't turn it on. In fact he avoided the rune entirely.
"What is this for?" Pelleas asked, voice calm and level.
"A test," Caradoc growled, "to see if you really are still the same man I knew." He pointed his sword at Pelleas. "Knights learn about their fellows through the clash of sword on sword. So come at me, and show your worth!"
"If you so insist," Pelleas said. Gildas swallowed. His hand was so close to the activation rune. Such a weapon would go through even a King's armor with ease. But still Pelleas didn't turn on the weapon. All he did was come forward.
The two men clashed in the middle of the yard with a clang of metal on metal, swords cracking into shields. There was silence among the witnesses. This was not a fight of joy.
Queen Ysave was pale, hands over her belly. Gildas could see Sir Pelleas' companions across the yard, all four watching raptly.
And the two knights fighting clearly saw nothing else but their foe, and the sword flashing again and again at them. Neither gave an inch.
Gildas watched Sir Pelleas' hand near the rune, and made the sign of the Aquilla. He wondered if he was the only one here who knew that at any moment, Pelleas could go for the kill with little to stop him. He prayed quietly, inaudible over the sound of combat.
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
This could turn ugly.
Interesting. Sounds like Eldar stuff.
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
The glittering fey kingdoms in hollows under the hills where a hundred years might pass as a day, but as like Webway pocket dimension shenanigans and like Exodite menhirs glowing with Avalon's World-Spirit, instead of the magic underworld of the Tuatha?
King Caradoc's Gambit Part 2
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
Diane watched as the two men in heavy armor circled each other like wolves, then struck violently at almost the same instant, swords clashing together. Both men were veterans, even Diane could tell that, and neither had the immediate upper hand.
Yet she knew that King Caradoc was older, and Sir Pelleas might have benefits beyond an ordinary man. She wondered if she and Brandaine had been hasty coming to their captors instead of staying with Caradoc's Court. There may be witchery afoot.
Now, suddenly, Pelleas took the upper hand, beating back Caradoc with a flurry of expertly placed strikes. The older man went back several steps, scrambling to defend, sword cracking on the other, armor holding firm.
Brandaine hissed, "Pelleas will kill him, I think. Crazy devil, what was he thinking?"
"Best be careful what you call the King," Manw replied grimly.
Pelleas lunged suddenly, a blow right towards the center of Caradoc's breastplate. Behind the strike was enough force to knock the King flat on his back, and from there pin him down. Diane knew that for certain, she had enough sword-training to know that, though she had ever favored the mace.
But with a burst of agility, Caradoc dodged the blow, and smote Pelleas a two-handed blow over the helm. Pelleas staggered under the weight, and Diane heard a gasp she realized a second later was from herself.
But Pelleas held his footing, even as he stumbled and groaned like a drunk. Somehow, by sheer entrained skill, he managed to parry most of the strikes Caradoc sent his way, his sword flashing and clanging.
Then Pelleas lunged, the point of his sword aimed right for the gap in Caradoc's armor, just at his throat. There was a breathless hiss from the crowd, Queen Ysave covered her mouth, but Caradoc too moved with the honed instincts of a battlefield veteran, and turned his shoulder just so the sword of his rival skidded and bounced away.
"They're amazing!" Brandaine gasped.
"Expert blades," Herne agreed, "I trained Pelleas myself, and would have never expected King Caradoc to be able to keep such pace."
Then Caradoc slammed the hilt of his sword into Pelleas' cheek. The powerful metal of the helm continued to hold, but Pelleas staggered with the impact.
This time, the younger knight wasn't nearly so stunned as the last blow to his head, and he swept his sword downward into Caradoc's leg with tremendous force. The King went down hard, and only just managed to catch himself from going onto his side. He drove his sword point first to steady himself, and lifted his left arm in defense.
But Pelleas didn't follow up the blow. "Enough of this, damn you!" he cried. "We are on the same side! I am not your enemy!"
Caradoc got back to his feet, and redoubled his efforts. Diane noticed, suddenly, that the mortal iron of his blade was beginning to chip as it slammed again and again into Sir Pelleas' weapon. "His sword is going to give first," she said, vibrating with excitement despite herself. "Sir Pelleas has won."
"King Caradoc isn't giving up, he'll fight with a stub of hilt until Pelleas has to kill him," Herne said grimly.
"I don't think the court will like that," Brandaine cried.
Caradoc came on, and struck at his foe, who blocked with his sword. A splinter of metal chipped off, and the sword looked worse and worse. "Come on," Caradoc roared, "come on! Strike me down! Take that unholy blade and pierce me deep!"
Now Diane saw the activation rune on Pelleas' sword, and realized it was truly over. King Caradoc had come out in the arms and armor of a mortal, against a man with a power sword. All Pelleas had to do was thumb the rune, and King Caradoc would be dead.
Suddenly, Caradoc's sword at last gave up, and the top of it slid down to fall into the dirt, leaving a shard of metal protruding from a hilt.
The young boy priest, Gildas, started to run up. He was holding an ancient chainsword in his arms, clearly working as a squire.
"No!" Caradoc snarled. He waved the broken sword. "It ends here!" He set his feet. "You turn on the damned sword and strike me down, or I drive this into your throat with all force!"
"Is this a suicide attempt?" Pelleas cried. "I don't want a part in this-"
"Your mother bedded a sidhe and birthed you!" Caradoc roared. "You are birthed from cuckoldry and xenophilia!"
Pelleas laughed, relaxing his guard. "Ok you are just making things up now, let's-"
Putting his whole weight behind it, Caradoc charged down the field, shard of a blade pointed unerringly at Pelleas' throat. The crowd around was quiet. Queen Ysave fell to her knees.
Diane saw as for a brief fraction of an instant Pelleas' finger nearly touched the rune. But he pulled away in the same instant, and threw the sword to the ground.
By this point, King Caradoc was almost on him. Pelleas moved to the side, the shard of the sword drawing blood, sending it splattering over the field. Then he grabbed the King in a tight bear hug, and squeezed.
Caradoc slumped into the hug, and dropped his bloody sword. Pelleas released him, and the King stepped back, taking off his helm to reveal a sweating, exhausted face. He was grinning, however. "Damn me, that was a close thing, you stubborn devil!"
Pelleas tore off his own helm, blood running down his neck. "That was it? You risked your damn life to prove what?"
"That you are still a man." Caradoc staggered away and almost fell before Gildas and Poul helped him stand. "My line is secure," he said gruffly, "if I fell to a traitor's sword, that'd be enough."
Pelleas checked his wound, and relaxed as he found it shallow. "I suppose a talk wouldn't have been sufficiently life-threatening," he muttered.
"We can talk now." The King nodded at the two women behind. "You owe them and I an explanation, I think. Best as you can."
Pelleas sighed. "Very well. I confess moving in such secrecy went against my nature." He looked back at his companions. "I apologize, I think I made a mess of this whole thing."
Herne shook his head. "You are the highest ranked of us. How you wish to move forward is up to you."
"I'd argue it is you who is of the highest rank, not I," Pelleas argued, "given that you are-"
"Do not speak my knightly name, sir," Herne interjected, "I haven't been using it for a reason, though no doubt all know it here, even the castaways, as your lips have been loose on it."
"As for I," Manw said, "I don't care how this is done, so long as it is done and King Gwyn and the others are pleased."
Caradoc at last stood under his own power, Gildas and Poul moving away from him. "I know it has to do with the Wild Hunt, and the Damsels. My fear is the sorcery that seems to be involved."
"No sorcery," Pelleas argued gently, "at least not of Chaos. We will explain ourselves."
With the duel over, and an amicable conclusion coming about, Gildas found himself newly ignored. Breathing a little heavily, still thinking about how close Caradoc came to death, he found himself walking towards the Queen, who still kneeled on the earth.
"Your highness," Gildas said gently, "all is well, no one is dead!" And then he saw the puddle of wet forming under the Queen's knees, spreading over the ground. His heart almost stopped.
He yelled for the nurse, for help, and the mood changed instantly. The Queen was, by all measure, several weeks early.
[Sorry for the wait on this one, these past couple weeks proved very busy and I wasn't feeling very well on top of it.]
Yet she knew that King Caradoc was older, and Sir Pelleas might have benefits beyond an ordinary man. She wondered if she and Brandaine had been hasty coming to their captors instead of staying with Caradoc's Court. There may be witchery afoot.
Now, suddenly, Pelleas took the upper hand, beating back Caradoc with a flurry of expertly placed strikes. The older man went back several steps, scrambling to defend, sword cracking on the other, armor holding firm.
Brandaine hissed, "Pelleas will kill him, I think. Crazy devil, what was he thinking?"
"Best be careful what you call the King," Manw replied grimly.
Pelleas lunged suddenly, a blow right towards the center of Caradoc's breastplate. Behind the strike was enough force to knock the King flat on his back, and from there pin him down. Diane knew that for certain, she had enough sword-training to know that, though she had ever favored the mace.
But with a burst of agility, Caradoc dodged the blow, and smote Pelleas a two-handed blow over the helm. Pelleas staggered under the weight, and Diane heard a gasp she realized a second later was from herself.
But Pelleas held his footing, even as he stumbled and groaned like a drunk. Somehow, by sheer entrained skill, he managed to parry most of the strikes Caradoc sent his way, his sword flashing and clanging.
Then Pelleas lunged, the point of his sword aimed right for the gap in Caradoc's armor, just at his throat. There was a breathless hiss from the crowd, Queen Ysave covered her mouth, but Caradoc too moved with the honed instincts of a battlefield veteran, and turned his shoulder just so the sword of his rival skidded and bounced away.
"They're amazing!" Brandaine gasped.
"Expert blades," Herne agreed, "I trained Pelleas myself, and would have never expected King Caradoc to be able to keep such pace."
Then Caradoc slammed the hilt of his sword into Pelleas' cheek. The powerful metal of the helm continued to hold, but Pelleas staggered with the impact.
This time, the younger knight wasn't nearly so stunned as the last blow to his head, and he swept his sword downward into Caradoc's leg with tremendous force. The King went down hard, and only just managed to catch himself from going onto his side. He drove his sword point first to steady himself, and lifted his left arm in defense.
But Pelleas didn't follow up the blow. "Enough of this, damn you!" he cried. "We are on the same side! I am not your enemy!"
Caradoc got back to his feet, and redoubled his efforts. Diane noticed, suddenly, that the mortal iron of his blade was beginning to chip as it slammed again and again into Sir Pelleas' weapon. "His sword is going to give first," she said, vibrating with excitement despite herself. "Sir Pelleas has won."
"King Caradoc isn't giving up, he'll fight with a stub of hilt until Pelleas has to kill him," Herne said grimly.
"I don't think the court will like that," Brandaine cried.
Caradoc came on, and struck at his foe, who blocked with his sword. A splinter of metal chipped off, and the sword looked worse and worse. "Come on," Caradoc roared, "come on! Strike me down! Take that unholy blade and pierce me deep!"
Now Diane saw the activation rune on Pelleas' sword, and realized it was truly over. King Caradoc had come out in the arms and armor of a mortal, against a man with a power sword. All Pelleas had to do was thumb the rune, and King Caradoc would be dead.
Suddenly, Caradoc's sword at last gave up, and the top of it slid down to fall into the dirt, leaving a shard of metal protruding from a hilt.
The young boy priest, Gildas, started to run up. He was holding an ancient chainsword in his arms, clearly working as a squire.
"No!" Caradoc snarled. He waved the broken sword. "It ends here!" He set his feet. "You turn on the damned sword and strike me down, or I drive this into your throat with all force!"
"Is this a suicide attempt?" Pelleas cried. "I don't want a part in this-"
"Your mother bedded a sidhe and birthed you!" Caradoc roared. "You are birthed from cuckoldry and xenophilia!"
Pelleas laughed, relaxing his guard. "Ok you are just making things up now, let's-"
Putting his whole weight behind it, Caradoc charged down the field, shard of a blade pointed unerringly at Pelleas' throat. The crowd around was quiet. Queen Ysave fell to her knees.
Diane saw as for a brief fraction of an instant Pelleas' finger nearly touched the rune. But he pulled away in the same instant, and threw the sword to the ground.
By this point, King Caradoc was almost on him. Pelleas moved to the side, the shard of the sword drawing blood, sending it splattering over the field. Then he grabbed the King in a tight bear hug, and squeezed.
Caradoc slumped into the hug, and dropped his bloody sword. Pelleas released him, and the King stepped back, taking off his helm to reveal a sweating, exhausted face. He was grinning, however. "Damn me, that was a close thing, you stubborn devil!"
Pelleas tore off his own helm, blood running down his neck. "That was it? You risked your damn life to prove what?"
"That you are still a man." Caradoc staggered away and almost fell before Gildas and Poul helped him stand. "My line is secure," he said gruffly, "if I fell to a traitor's sword, that'd be enough."
Pelleas checked his wound, and relaxed as he found it shallow. "I suppose a talk wouldn't have been sufficiently life-threatening," he muttered.
"We can talk now." The King nodded at the two women behind. "You owe them and I an explanation, I think. Best as you can."
Pelleas sighed. "Very well. I confess moving in such secrecy went against my nature." He looked back at his companions. "I apologize, I think I made a mess of this whole thing."
Herne shook his head. "You are the highest ranked of us. How you wish to move forward is up to you."
"I'd argue it is you who is of the highest rank, not I," Pelleas argued, "given that you are-"
"Do not speak my knightly name, sir," Herne interjected, "I haven't been using it for a reason, though no doubt all know it here, even the castaways, as your lips have been loose on it."
"As for I," Manw said, "I don't care how this is done, so long as it is done and King Gwyn and the others are pleased."
Caradoc at last stood under his own power, Gildas and Poul moving away from him. "I know it has to do with the Wild Hunt, and the Damsels. My fear is the sorcery that seems to be involved."
"No sorcery," Pelleas argued gently, "at least not of Chaos. We will explain ourselves."
***********
With the duel over, and an amicable conclusion coming about, Gildas found himself newly ignored. Breathing a little heavily, still thinking about how close Caradoc came to death, he found himself walking towards the Queen, who still kneeled on the earth.
"Your highness," Gildas said gently, "all is well, no one is dead!" And then he saw the puddle of wet forming under the Queen's knees, spreading over the ground. His heart almost stopped.
He yelled for the nurse, for help, and the mood changed instantly. The Queen was, by all measure, several weeks early.
[Sorry for the wait on this one, these past couple weeks proved very busy and I wasn't feeling very well on top of it.]
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
C-C-C-C-C-C-C-C-COMBO BREAKER!!!
That's what I was asking.
Finally.
Birthes and Ventures
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
"It is bad luck, right?" Gildas cried to the nurse. "For me to be here. Bad luck for a man to help with a birth?"
The old lady scowled at him. "A priest may be needed, and I trust you more than Father Dylan." She turned stiffly. "I'm no midwife myself, she wasn't going to be here for a few weeks. Ill omens, boy, ill omens everywhere!"
The Queen, carried gently by a group of serving girls, let out a pained moan as one girl stumbled on a steep stair.
"Careful!" barked the old lady. "If the Queen miscarries, it will be out of your hide!"
"Yes grandmother, sorry grandmother," the girl stammered.
It was the shock of seeing her husband fight and nearly commit suicide against Sir Pelleas that drove her to early labor, Gildas thought a little bitterly. But would Caradoc take responsibility for that? Many Kings would rather die than admit fault in anything.
Ysave reached out a hand and gently stroked the girl's shoulder. "It's okay," the Queen managed, grimacing at a convulsion. "It will be fine. The baby is healthy, I can tell. My Aunt was a wise woman who became a Hospitaler, she'd take me to births sometimes, I can help from the birth-bed."
The Queen's room was high in the towers, set up as she liked looking out across the land. She had a massive, comfortable bed that had been in the family for untold generations. The mattress was new, so were the sheets.
"Should we strip off the sheets?" one of the ladies asked, pale. "It will get messy and it seems a shame to ruin them."
"We will clean them afterwards," the elder replied with a sniff, "set her down now, and get to work. This may take some time."
Gildas sat across from the action, cross legged on a chair. He wondered if he should look away. It still felt like as much an ill omen as anything for a man to be present during a birth.
"Prey, Gildas, prey!" came a cry from the birthing bed. Queen Ysave, voice harsh with pain.
Gildas fumbled out his aquila, and eyes locked began to pray. Mostly he found himself praying that a proper nurse would come, a Lady Hospitaler who'd kick him out and give the divine and medical guidance needed here.
Queen Ysave screamed in pain, and grabbed her sheets tightly. "Louder Gildas! So the God-Emperor can hear you on Terra!"
Terrified, Gildas started to scream his prayer, at nearly the top of his lungs. His voice sounded shrill, not strong at all. In what felt like barely five minutes, his lungs felt like they were on fire, but he powered through it, and kept screaming the prayer. It was barely words, beyond language, Gildas yelling whatever holy things came to mind.
It wasn't working, Gildas was certain it wasn't working. The Queen and her handmaids were too consumed by the painful, bloody work to even notice. He was little more than an annoying bird, squawking in the corner.
But he didn't dare stop. It was all he could do but try and scream his holy words, so that maybe there was some chance it could pierce through the storm and reach Holy Terra.
King Caradoc had aged decades instantaneously. He paced the room, head lowered, tugging at his beard. "Hell take it," he muttered darkly, "hell take it all."
Patently, Diane watched the man pace. She understood his fear, but she couldn't help but feel a spasm of anger. They had been promised an explanation at last, yet that seemed all forgotten now.
Pelleas stood near the King, frowning. "Was she not due any day?"
"Next month," replied Caradoc.
"These things do happen," Herne said, trying and failing to sound reassuring.
Caradoc put a hand through his hair. "There is something else," he said suddenly, "We wed eight months ago, you know, and consummated immediately. And she got pregnant immediately. I thought that was good fortune, but now I fear."
"You don't think it is premature?" Pelleas asked, startled. "Why sir, I've spoken with your wife, and she hardly seems the type to sleep around while married."
Caradoc shook his head. "I was convinced that I was infertile for so long. Or perhaps the rumor just got to my head, and still does." He sighed, bitterly. "I never cared if she was a virgin or not when I married her. It simply felt good to have a wife and Queen at last. I could even overlook infertility if she was discreet about it, though you are right that she doesn't seem the type to go for such matters. But I can't afford rumors, Pelleas, you know that."
"Excuse me!" Diane snapped, impatience overwhelming her senses. "With all due respect, King Caradoc, I believe we were going to speak of matters that affect all of us." She looked at Pelleas. "Sir, you did promise to try to explain."
Brandaine gave her a shocked look. Talking back to superiors was anathema to the Guard, after all.
The look on Caradoc's face was closer to a befuddled dog. "Beg pardon, Lady Diane?"
"The thing you got into a fight over?" Diane suggested. "You very nearly threw yourself on Sir Pelleas' sword over it."
Caradoc blinked, then seemed to recall. "Oh. Yes, Sir Pelleas' apparent agelessness. You did promise an explanation." His voice was listless now, this had become secondary in his heart and mind, clearly.
Sir Pelleas nodded, frowning a bit. "Yes, I do owe it. I assure you, I remain a man loyal to the High King of Avalon and the Throne of Holy Terra. So are my mistresses in the Holy Order of the Damsels of the Lake."
"Some whisper different," Caradoc muttered.
"Some men are fools." Pelleas shrugged. "Regardless, I am the Sword of the Lady now. I am wed to the Lady of the Wake herself."
Caradoc managed a sharp laugh. "Nimue? Why, she must be in her seventies by now." Then he stopped laughing. "Or even older, by the Throne."
"I couldn't tell you," Pelleas replied, grimly. "Regardless, after I completed my training, some years after we parted as childhood friends, I was sent to the Otherworld, known as Annwn."
"The Warp?" Diane hissed, "they sent you into the Warp?"
"No madam," Pelleas replied, shaking his head. "I wouldn't have lived, if I had set foot there, if I even could. Annwn is a strange place, of this earth as much as anything, yet not. I was sent there, with protections against the ancient beings that may yet still inhabit it, for a single purpose. There is a place in Annwn that may hold the key to winning the war, perhaps to winning all wars until the end of time."
Manw grunted in amusement. "You are exaggerating there, young man."
Pelleas flushed. "Mayhap. Regardless, to my senses I spent a long year down there. The Tuatha created a world within, there are forests and plains and the ruins of kingdoms. There were animals as well, mostly normal creatures, but said to be long-lived and powerful." He scowled. "Also, there were powries. Chaos forces have started to seep into Annwn, to take and consume what they can."
"What is a powrie?" Diane asked.
"A kind of mutant," Caradoc answered grimly, "they live on ancient battlefields and scavenge anything sharp and nasty, and ambush and kill any travelers unfortunate to get too close."
"It is said their Gods walk on the earth," Manw growled, "they stick to their ruins and ruined lands. But they can be rallied to war, and it seems this world is becoming nothing but ruins and land where nothing grows but evil."
"This was toward the end of the year, I was growing miserable and desperate. I hadn't seen a single living humanoid, though I came across ruins of the elder race. They say Arawn the Death-Lord still lives, but I never came on him."
"Probably for the best," Herne argued grimly, "Arawn was said to be a cruel and grim creature. He'd kill you for trespassing on his lands, if you came upon them."
"So you've argued, and so have others argued. Yet at that point, I had gotten frustrated with my lonely travels. I'd have welcomed any company."
"Even an ancient and insane xenos?" Diane asked, smiling thinly.
"Aye, madam, even that." Pelleas smiled back at her, with no shame. "The powries proved me wrong enough. Three of them ambushed me. I killed them, the sword I carried able to cut through their armor. I'm embarrassed to say, that was the last straw. I panicked, and fled back the way I came. I rode until the horse under me died, and somehow emerged near where I had entered, exhausted and near dead. I was found by damsels I didn't recognize, and then I learned that it had been two decades since I had last been seen." He grew silent for a moment. "I had to rest for a time after that."
In the following quiet, Diane explained what Brandaine hadn't caught to her, though the guardswoman had listened closely, and didn't need too much. "Tell him I've heard of this," she said softly, "xenos battlefields that don't follow the same rules of time or even geometry. He's lucky he got out of it sane."
Diane did so.
Pelleas laughed in response. "I am made of sterner stuff, ladies, I just got a bit displaced, that's all."
"This explains your age," Caradoc said gruffly, "but not why you were down there, or why you need the castaways."
"In truth," Pelleas said, "we only need Lady Diane. A Navigator such as her hasn't been seen on this planet for a long time." He crossed his fingers. "I said I was looking for something specific in Annwn. Lady Nimue believes that this can be pinpointed using the third eye, much as one can pinpoint the Astronomican in space."
Diane stared at the man. "You're mad," she said at last, "it doesn't work like that."
The man shrugged. "I'm a sword, lady. That is what I know. Lady Nimue and Queen Morgan are the ones who understand more esoteric matters. Lady Nimue can explain what she plans with this."
"And if I know it won't work?" Diane asked.
"Then that can be explained to her, I swear on my sword no harm will befall you. This is something that must be done, one way or another."
"And what of me?" snapped an impatient Brandaine.
"You can stay here, when we leave," assured Herne.
Brandaine turned away for a moment. "I'm staying with Diane, for now," she said at last, "I can barely speak the language here, I want to be with my fellow castaway until I become properly fluent."
Diane looked over at King Caradoc, trying to see if maybe he'd seen the madness of this. But the King had fallen into his own thoughts, the impending birth of his heir and the possible issues therein had overwhelmed him. What Sir Pelleas had said barely impacted.
She frowned. It seemed to her, she continued to be pulled about on this path. "So be it," she said with a sigh. "I don't know if I trust you all, but if I am to be trapped, at least this explanation gives me some idea. Though I was hoping for a ship."
"Where could we go with a ship?" asked Manw, hanging his hairy head down, almost shame faced.
Diane sighed. "Like I said. Trapped. At least this way, I can give some closure."
The old lady scowled at him. "A priest may be needed, and I trust you more than Father Dylan." She turned stiffly. "I'm no midwife myself, she wasn't going to be here for a few weeks. Ill omens, boy, ill omens everywhere!"
The Queen, carried gently by a group of serving girls, let out a pained moan as one girl stumbled on a steep stair.
"Careful!" barked the old lady. "If the Queen miscarries, it will be out of your hide!"
"Yes grandmother, sorry grandmother," the girl stammered.
It was the shock of seeing her husband fight and nearly commit suicide against Sir Pelleas that drove her to early labor, Gildas thought a little bitterly. But would Caradoc take responsibility for that? Many Kings would rather die than admit fault in anything.
Ysave reached out a hand and gently stroked the girl's shoulder. "It's okay," the Queen managed, grimacing at a convulsion. "It will be fine. The baby is healthy, I can tell. My Aunt was a wise woman who became a Hospitaler, she'd take me to births sometimes, I can help from the birth-bed."
The Queen's room was high in the towers, set up as she liked looking out across the land. She had a massive, comfortable bed that had been in the family for untold generations. The mattress was new, so were the sheets.
"Should we strip off the sheets?" one of the ladies asked, pale. "It will get messy and it seems a shame to ruin them."
"We will clean them afterwards," the elder replied with a sniff, "set her down now, and get to work. This may take some time."
Gildas sat across from the action, cross legged on a chair. He wondered if he should look away. It still felt like as much an ill omen as anything for a man to be present during a birth.
"Prey, Gildas, prey!" came a cry from the birthing bed. Queen Ysave, voice harsh with pain.
Gildas fumbled out his aquila, and eyes locked began to pray. Mostly he found himself praying that a proper nurse would come, a Lady Hospitaler who'd kick him out and give the divine and medical guidance needed here.
Queen Ysave screamed in pain, and grabbed her sheets tightly. "Louder Gildas! So the God-Emperor can hear you on Terra!"
Terrified, Gildas started to scream his prayer, at nearly the top of his lungs. His voice sounded shrill, not strong at all. In what felt like barely five minutes, his lungs felt like they were on fire, but he powered through it, and kept screaming the prayer. It was barely words, beyond language, Gildas yelling whatever holy things came to mind.
It wasn't working, Gildas was certain it wasn't working. The Queen and her handmaids were too consumed by the painful, bloody work to even notice. He was little more than an annoying bird, squawking in the corner.
But he didn't dare stop. It was all he could do but try and scream his holy words, so that maybe there was some chance it could pierce through the storm and reach Holy Terra.
*************
King Caradoc had aged decades instantaneously. He paced the room, head lowered, tugging at his beard. "Hell take it," he muttered darkly, "hell take it all."
Patently, Diane watched the man pace. She understood his fear, but she couldn't help but feel a spasm of anger. They had been promised an explanation at last, yet that seemed all forgotten now.
Pelleas stood near the King, frowning. "Was she not due any day?"
"Next month," replied Caradoc.
"These things do happen," Herne said, trying and failing to sound reassuring.
Caradoc put a hand through his hair. "There is something else," he said suddenly, "We wed eight months ago, you know, and consummated immediately. And she got pregnant immediately. I thought that was good fortune, but now I fear."
"You don't think it is premature?" Pelleas asked, startled. "Why sir, I've spoken with your wife, and she hardly seems the type to sleep around while married."
Caradoc shook his head. "I was convinced that I was infertile for so long. Or perhaps the rumor just got to my head, and still does." He sighed, bitterly. "I never cared if she was a virgin or not when I married her. It simply felt good to have a wife and Queen at last. I could even overlook infertility if she was discreet about it, though you are right that she doesn't seem the type to go for such matters. But I can't afford rumors, Pelleas, you know that."
"Excuse me!" Diane snapped, impatience overwhelming her senses. "With all due respect, King Caradoc, I believe we were going to speak of matters that affect all of us." She looked at Pelleas. "Sir, you did promise to try to explain."
Brandaine gave her a shocked look. Talking back to superiors was anathema to the Guard, after all.
The look on Caradoc's face was closer to a befuddled dog. "Beg pardon, Lady Diane?"
"The thing you got into a fight over?" Diane suggested. "You very nearly threw yourself on Sir Pelleas' sword over it."
Caradoc blinked, then seemed to recall. "Oh. Yes, Sir Pelleas' apparent agelessness. You did promise an explanation." His voice was listless now, this had become secondary in his heart and mind, clearly.
Sir Pelleas nodded, frowning a bit. "Yes, I do owe it. I assure you, I remain a man loyal to the High King of Avalon and the Throne of Holy Terra. So are my mistresses in the Holy Order of the Damsels of the Lake."
"Some whisper different," Caradoc muttered.
"Some men are fools." Pelleas shrugged. "Regardless, I am the Sword of the Lady now. I am wed to the Lady of the Wake herself."
Caradoc managed a sharp laugh. "Nimue? Why, she must be in her seventies by now." Then he stopped laughing. "Or even older, by the Throne."
"I couldn't tell you," Pelleas replied, grimly. "Regardless, after I completed my training, some years after we parted as childhood friends, I was sent to the Otherworld, known as Annwn."
"The Warp?" Diane hissed, "they sent you into the Warp?"
"No madam," Pelleas replied, shaking his head. "I wouldn't have lived, if I had set foot there, if I even could. Annwn is a strange place, of this earth as much as anything, yet not. I was sent there, with protections against the ancient beings that may yet still inhabit it, for a single purpose. There is a place in Annwn that may hold the key to winning the war, perhaps to winning all wars until the end of time."
Manw grunted in amusement. "You are exaggerating there, young man."
Pelleas flushed. "Mayhap. Regardless, to my senses I spent a long year down there. The Tuatha created a world within, there are forests and plains and the ruins of kingdoms. There were animals as well, mostly normal creatures, but said to be long-lived and powerful." He scowled. "Also, there were powries. Chaos forces have started to seep into Annwn, to take and consume what they can."
"What is a powrie?" Diane asked.
"A kind of mutant," Caradoc answered grimly, "they live on ancient battlefields and scavenge anything sharp and nasty, and ambush and kill any travelers unfortunate to get too close."
"It is said their Gods walk on the earth," Manw growled, "they stick to their ruins and ruined lands. But they can be rallied to war, and it seems this world is becoming nothing but ruins and land where nothing grows but evil."
"This was toward the end of the year, I was growing miserable and desperate. I hadn't seen a single living humanoid, though I came across ruins of the elder race. They say Arawn the Death-Lord still lives, but I never came on him."
"Probably for the best," Herne argued grimly, "Arawn was said to be a cruel and grim creature. He'd kill you for trespassing on his lands, if you came upon them."
"So you've argued, and so have others argued. Yet at that point, I had gotten frustrated with my lonely travels. I'd have welcomed any company."
"Even an ancient and insane xenos?" Diane asked, smiling thinly.
"Aye, madam, even that." Pelleas smiled back at her, with no shame. "The powries proved me wrong enough. Three of them ambushed me. I killed them, the sword I carried able to cut through their armor. I'm embarrassed to say, that was the last straw. I panicked, and fled back the way I came. I rode until the horse under me died, and somehow emerged near where I had entered, exhausted and near dead. I was found by damsels I didn't recognize, and then I learned that it had been two decades since I had last been seen." He grew silent for a moment. "I had to rest for a time after that."
In the following quiet, Diane explained what Brandaine hadn't caught to her, though the guardswoman had listened closely, and didn't need too much. "Tell him I've heard of this," she said softly, "xenos battlefields that don't follow the same rules of time or even geometry. He's lucky he got out of it sane."
Diane did so.
Pelleas laughed in response. "I am made of sterner stuff, ladies, I just got a bit displaced, that's all."
"This explains your age," Caradoc said gruffly, "but not why you were down there, or why you need the castaways."
"In truth," Pelleas said, "we only need Lady Diane. A Navigator such as her hasn't been seen on this planet for a long time." He crossed his fingers. "I said I was looking for something specific in Annwn. Lady Nimue believes that this can be pinpointed using the third eye, much as one can pinpoint the Astronomican in space."
Diane stared at the man. "You're mad," she said at last, "it doesn't work like that."
The man shrugged. "I'm a sword, lady. That is what I know. Lady Nimue and Queen Morgan are the ones who understand more esoteric matters. Lady Nimue can explain what she plans with this."
"And if I know it won't work?" Diane asked.
"Then that can be explained to her, I swear on my sword no harm will befall you. This is something that must be done, one way or another."
"And what of me?" snapped an impatient Brandaine.
"You can stay here, when we leave," assured Herne.
Brandaine turned away for a moment. "I'm staying with Diane, for now," she said at last, "I can barely speak the language here, I want to be with my fellow castaway until I become properly fluent."
Diane looked over at King Caradoc, trying to see if maybe he'd seen the madness of this. But the King had fallen into his own thoughts, the impending birth of his heir and the possible issues therein had overwhelmed him. What Sir Pelleas had said barely impacted.
She frowned. It seemed to her, she continued to be pulled about on this path. "So be it," she said with a sigh. "I don't know if I trust you all, but if I am to be trapped, at least this explanation gives me some idea. Though I was hoping for a ship."
"Where could we go with a ship?" asked Manw, hanging his hairy head down, almost shame faced.
Diane sighed. "Like I said. Trapped. At least this way, I can give some closure."
Last edited:
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
I think we're past the point of worrying about things like that!
Well, this is certainly a situation I never expected to see in WH.
And you want something to take your mind off of what is happening to your wive.
Interesting.
GilliamYaeger
M'crazy.
Pelleas got sent into a reverse Hyperbolic Time Chamber dimension, where spending one year inside equals twenty outside.
Plans at Caer Leon Part One
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
Caer Leon had grown decently into a military court for King Arthur. Bedwyr had seen several such courts, though all were by necessity hidden from the mystic eyes of the enemy. In comparison, this was more open, building on the old Militarum ruins, the banners of Arthur's followers billowing from formally empty rooms.
Bedwyr remembered fighting Bruce San Pitie's undead army here long ago. It had felt like a mausoleum then, but now it felt like a living city.
Foot soldiers, in Ector's livery, appeared to greet the cars, waving them past the growing walls.
Activity ceased as King Arthur's convoy slid into the camp and made its way towards the great hall. Common folk, men, women, and children, lined the streets and cheered, and even the nobles and knights were in something of a parade mood.
Bedwyr found he had trouble getting into the spirit. After his second duel with Sir Lancelot, his metal foot had started to pain him immensely, as if a wedge was being driven up his leg. So as they drove into Caer Leon, he was seated on a chair, leg propped on a cushion, wearing nothing but an old tunic as Ganieda, Vivian, and glum-faced medic looked over.
It is old, Ganieda signed to him, after a moment. And battered.
"Old and battered sir," the medic said, not understanding the abhuman's signs. He seemed eager to please, however. "You've worn it through several campaigns no doubt, and facing Sir Lancelot, Champion of the World, in single combat no doubt exacerbated it."
Bedwyr scowled at the man. "I knew that already," he bit out. "Do we cut it off then?"
"Certainly not!" Vivian gasped. "Right?" she asked the others.
Ganieda shrugged, in a manner that expressed she was a mechanic, not a doctor. The actual doctor rubbed his chin and stammered, "Well, there is certainly a better way, to remove and replace it with a better augmatic. But we might not find one for some time."
Bedwyr reached for his sword. "I can make do with a peg, for a time, I did when I was younger." He activated the rune, Dyrnwyn filling the room with its cold fire. "Hold it steady, please," he continued, "I am tired of having it dig into my leg a moment longer."
Suddenly, Vivian was at his side, grabbing his sword arm. "By the Lady and the Throne! Must you be so hasty, my dear?"
Blushing a bit, Bedwyr groaned, "It hurts, Vivian."
"Yes, well, that doesn't mean you have to cut it off, we can find a more careful solution."
Bedwyr managed a smile. "It wouldn't be the first time I've cut off my own limb."
"I wonder if you were so hasty then?" Vivian asked with a sigh.
"The sorcerous grasp of Chaos had been growing upon it, using my old machine-limb as a base. In retrospect I think I made the correct choice."
She blushed. "Oh. I apologize for my comment."
"Don't worry about it," Bedwyr sighed, "I don't discuss it much." Sometimes he still had nightmares, in which bird-headed monstrosities featured heavily, mocking him for what he abandoned, leaving his arm lying on the heath. Absurd. He'd burned that arm to ash and dust.
Going to have to take it apart, Ganieda signed to him. While it is still attached to you, find out what is digging in. Sorry, it's going to hurt.
Just give me something to bite. Bedwyr signed back. He snapped the instruction at the medic, who scurried and came back with a bolt of cloth that he placed dutifully in Bedwyr's open mouth.
Vivian let him grip his hand, as Ganieda and the medic started. The foot was a part of him as much as his flesh was. He bit down hard on the cloth as the pain started.
They were very carefully shaving off parts of it, removing the superfluous armor that had been built around it under the specifications of the lunar Magos Gofannon. They reached the internals eventually. Ganieda dribbled some holy oil on it, mutely mouthing a prayer. It made Bedwyr feel like he was on fire, and he bit down hard on the rag in his mouth, and his nails dug into Vivian's hand until he could feel the blood running down it.
Ganieda reached within, agile fingers reaching within, clearly trying to handle it as quickly as possible.
Bedwyr bit down harder and resisted the instinctual urge to kick.
Then there was a sharp pain and a tug, and Ganieda emerged, a sharp bit of metal, covered in blood in her hand. She dropped it on a nearby table. Doesn't seem infected. Need a replacement.
The pain started to ebb, replaced with a deep numbness. Bedwyr spat out the rag, and released Vivian's hand. He winced at the blood running down her arm. "I apologize," he croaked out.
She wiped her hand with a bit of cloth. "It's ok," she said gently, kissing his cheek. "That looked quite painful."
"Agonizing." Bedwyr started to stagger to his feet. He put his weight carefully on his right, and discovered he could almost manage a walk, though he went about with a distinct limp. "Got to replace it," he muttered, "but this will do for now." The now stripped foot sparked a bit.
Vivian looked down, frowning. "Maybe I should have let you cut it off, Beddie."
"I was just trying to cut out the middleman," Bedwyr said to her, grinning. He held out his hand, and she took it, laughing, as they walked out the car.
Arthur was holding council with his closest advisors. Cei and Myrddin were beside him, and across sat Sir Ector, King Mark, Cador, King Geriant and Queen Enid, and many others beside.
"So where is Bedwyr, who I hear continues to prove himself well?" Geriant asked.
"His leg was hurting him, so he held back to have it examined," Arthur replied. He didn't let his worry show. Men had died of less.
"I do hope he recovers swiftly," Enid said gently.
"If a little trouble with a foot kills Bedwyr, I'll kill him myself!" Cei snapped angrily.
Sir Ector had to hide a laugh or perhaps a groan behind his hand at that, eventually he calmed down and said, "Hopefully the lad has a speedy recovery. But King Arthur, you did call us here for a reason, yes?"
Arthur nodded. "That is correct." He leaned forward in his chair. "The attempt, though half-hearted, at my life has caused me to consider some possibilities."
"They wouldn't dare go for an all-out war!" Cador snapped. "It would be suicide."
"King Lot is mad enough to try something else, King Meliodas is working with him for convenience, so are several others. And of course King Owain and many more insist on standing neutral, waiting to see what conclusion is reached. No doubt they will take some time to argue over what their next move will be," said King Mark, stroking his beard. "I've been friends with Meliodas for years, his son is practically a son to me as well. I will start correspondence with him, and try to have him see reason."
"That would be well," Arthur told Mark with a nod. "If they are going to be debating, it would be best for us to move decisively in the meantime. I believe I must do something undeniable and of true Chivalry, to silence the doubters and force the ones determined to fight the claim to their knees."
There were murmurs around the table. One man blurted suddenly, "You intend to attack the Chaoslands now? We don't have the foundation for an invasion!"
"No." The psychic, old Blaise, walked out of the shadows. "Not an invasion. A defense."
Bedwyr remembered fighting Bruce San Pitie's undead army here long ago. It had felt like a mausoleum then, but now it felt like a living city.
Foot soldiers, in Ector's livery, appeared to greet the cars, waving them past the growing walls.
Activity ceased as King Arthur's convoy slid into the camp and made its way towards the great hall. Common folk, men, women, and children, lined the streets and cheered, and even the nobles and knights were in something of a parade mood.
Bedwyr found he had trouble getting into the spirit. After his second duel with Sir Lancelot, his metal foot had started to pain him immensely, as if a wedge was being driven up his leg. So as they drove into Caer Leon, he was seated on a chair, leg propped on a cushion, wearing nothing but an old tunic as Ganieda, Vivian, and glum-faced medic looked over.
It is old, Ganieda signed to him, after a moment. And battered.
"Old and battered sir," the medic said, not understanding the abhuman's signs. He seemed eager to please, however. "You've worn it through several campaigns no doubt, and facing Sir Lancelot, Champion of the World, in single combat no doubt exacerbated it."
Bedwyr scowled at the man. "I knew that already," he bit out. "Do we cut it off then?"
"Certainly not!" Vivian gasped. "Right?" she asked the others.
Ganieda shrugged, in a manner that expressed she was a mechanic, not a doctor. The actual doctor rubbed his chin and stammered, "Well, there is certainly a better way, to remove and replace it with a better augmatic. But we might not find one for some time."
Bedwyr reached for his sword. "I can make do with a peg, for a time, I did when I was younger." He activated the rune, Dyrnwyn filling the room with its cold fire. "Hold it steady, please," he continued, "I am tired of having it dig into my leg a moment longer."
Suddenly, Vivian was at his side, grabbing his sword arm. "By the Lady and the Throne! Must you be so hasty, my dear?"
Blushing a bit, Bedwyr groaned, "It hurts, Vivian."
"Yes, well, that doesn't mean you have to cut it off, we can find a more careful solution."
Bedwyr managed a smile. "It wouldn't be the first time I've cut off my own limb."
"I wonder if you were so hasty then?" Vivian asked with a sigh.
"The sorcerous grasp of Chaos had been growing upon it, using my old machine-limb as a base. In retrospect I think I made the correct choice."
She blushed. "Oh. I apologize for my comment."
"Don't worry about it," Bedwyr sighed, "I don't discuss it much." Sometimes he still had nightmares, in which bird-headed monstrosities featured heavily, mocking him for what he abandoned, leaving his arm lying on the heath. Absurd. He'd burned that arm to ash and dust.
Going to have to take it apart, Ganieda signed to him. While it is still attached to you, find out what is digging in. Sorry, it's going to hurt.
Just give me something to bite. Bedwyr signed back. He snapped the instruction at the medic, who scurried and came back with a bolt of cloth that he placed dutifully in Bedwyr's open mouth.
Vivian let him grip his hand, as Ganieda and the medic started. The foot was a part of him as much as his flesh was. He bit down hard on the cloth as the pain started.
They were very carefully shaving off parts of it, removing the superfluous armor that had been built around it under the specifications of the lunar Magos Gofannon. They reached the internals eventually. Ganieda dribbled some holy oil on it, mutely mouthing a prayer. It made Bedwyr feel like he was on fire, and he bit down hard on the rag in his mouth, and his nails dug into Vivian's hand until he could feel the blood running down it.
Ganieda reached within, agile fingers reaching within, clearly trying to handle it as quickly as possible.
Bedwyr bit down harder and resisted the instinctual urge to kick.
Then there was a sharp pain and a tug, and Ganieda emerged, a sharp bit of metal, covered in blood in her hand. She dropped it on a nearby table. Doesn't seem infected. Need a replacement.
The pain started to ebb, replaced with a deep numbness. Bedwyr spat out the rag, and released Vivian's hand. He winced at the blood running down her arm. "I apologize," he croaked out.
She wiped her hand with a bit of cloth. "It's ok," she said gently, kissing his cheek. "That looked quite painful."
"Agonizing." Bedwyr started to stagger to his feet. He put his weight carefully on his right, and discovered he could almost manage a walk, though he went about with a distinct limp. "Got to replace it," he muttered, "but this will do for now." The now stripped foot sparked a bit.
Vivian looked down, frowning. "Maybe I should have let you cut it off, Beddie."
"I was just trying to cut out the middleman," Bedwyr said to her, grinning. He held out his hand, and she took it, laughing, as they walked out the car.
***************
Arthur was holding council with his closest advisors. Cei and Myrddin were beside him, and across sat Sir Ector, King Mark, Cador, King Geriant and Queen Enid, and many others beside.
"So where is Bedwyr, who I hear continues to prove himself well?" Geriant asked.
"His leg was hurting him, so he held back to have it examined," Arthur replied. He didn't let his worry show. Men had died of less.
"I do hope he recovers swiftly," Enid said gently.
"If a little trouble with a foot kills Bedwyr, I'll kill him myself!" Cei snapped angrily.
Sir Ector had to hide a laugh or perhaps a groan behind his hand at that, eventually he calmed down and said, "Hopefully the lad has a speedy recovery. But King Arthur, you did call us here for a reason, yes?"
Arthur nodded. "That is correct." He leaned forward in his chair. "The attempt, though half-hearted, at my life has caused me to consider some possibilities."
"They wouldn't dare go for an all-out war!" Cador snapped. "It would be suicide."
"King Lot is mad enough to try something else, King Meliodas is working with him for convenience, so are several others. And of course King Owain and many more insist on standing neutral, waiting to see what conclusion is reached. No doubt they will take some time to argue over what their next move will be," said King Mark, stroking his beard. "I've been friends with Meliodas for years, his son is practically a son to me as well. I will start correspondence with him, and try to have him see reason."
"That would be well," Arthur told Mark with a nod. "If they are going to be debating, it would be best for us to move decisively in the meantime. I believe I must do something undeniable and of true Chivalry, to silence the doubters and force the ones determined to fight the claim to their knees."
There were murmurs around the table. One man blurted suddenly, "You intend to attack the Chaoslands now? We don't have the foundation for an invasion!"
"No." The psychic, old Blaise, walked out of the shadows. "Not an invasion. A defense."
"A good defense is the best offense." - TTS Rogal Dorn.
This story looks great so far after binging it and I will look forward for more chapters.
This story looks great so far after binging it and I will look forward for more chapters.
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
I see the reference.
You need a new one.
Yes, you did.
Hah!
Oh, please, tell us more.
Plan at Caer Leon Part Two
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
The present nobles stared down the psychic, as he emerged. Blaise, as old and wise and willful as he was, was trusted even less than Myrddin, Archimedes, and Waylen. The four old madmen who served King Arthur as advisors of the esoteric were unloved, but still respected.
Blaise was dangerous. As a psyker, at any moment the power he so tentatively controlled could backfire. That day seemed to be coming closer and closer, as the war mounted in ways both physical and mystical.
"Do explain, Master Blaise," Arthur said solemnly.
"Some years ago, I traveled with King Pellinore and his squire, now the famed Sir Bedwyr. This was on the great hunt for the Questing Beast, which was successfully destroyed after a long adventure."
"At cost, of course," King Geriant sighed, stroking his chin. "Poor King Pellinore, still catatonic by all accounts."
"That was not the Questing Beast, which was disposed of through a heroic effort, but the treachery of Prince Vortimer himself, who ambushed King Pellinore while he dueled with the honorable enemy Sir Gruffyd. Both men were gravely injured in the assault. Sir Gruffyd, I saw, was taken away by the Prince of Treachery."
There was a rumble of anger and disgust across the table, for the loathed Prince Vortimer. To break the rules of chivalry so flagrantly and constantly made him the most loathed man on the planet.
Ector slammed his fist on the table. "One day I'll destroy that damned vampyre, him and his walking fortress!"
"He is one target that must be destroyed if this planet is to be fully freed," agreed Blaise, "yet what struck me was how strange that Prince Vortimer was even present there. It was, to put it bluntly, quite in the middle of nowhere, a realm on the fringe of several Chaos Lords' rule. The one landmark was the mountain called Saint Michael. Which was the site of a massive operation by the Dark Mechanicum."
"A mine, perhaps?" Enid asked. "Perhaps Prince Vortimer has stock in it?"
"Would certainly make it easier," said Blaise, "but I believe there is a darker purpose to the work. The Dark Mechanicum would hardly be needed to set up a mine, Vortimer's own thralls would have been able to handle it, if need be. No, there is a piece of technology at the center of this, at the center of the mountain, I believe."
Arthur knew full well what was coming, dramatics had its uses, but he found it a bit galling here. Better to get on with it, the clock continued to run, even if worrying about every second was a foolish exercise. He ran his fingers on the table.
Gwen, in disguise, came up over his shoulder, and bent over him to reveal his goblet. Bright gold mead, which Arthur would freely admit he wasn't fully used to. He reached out and took hold of the goblet, at the same time feeling Guinevere's fingers, her skin soft on his. He quickly, subtly, slid his finger clockwise across the joint of her finger.
She smirked at him, leaned down and whispered, "Lord Blaise does go on."
"I don't believe he wastes a word," Arthur responded, as softly, "see how rapt they are." He noticed, suddenly, that Sir Cador wasn't looking at the psyker, but instead right at him and Gwen. The older knight's eyes were grim and cold, like he was planning murder.
"A Titan, I believe," Blaise said, voice raising. "That is what I believe the Dark Ones are going for. My research into the histories state it is possible an ancient God-Machine could be buried at the site. Folklore speaks of a 'Giant of Mont Saint Michel' and I believe that is no mere ghost piloting an old Knight."
There was silence, the nobles digesting the words. "And this took three years?" Ector asked at last.
"Burrowing through so much rock, and making what repairs are needed would have taken quite a long time. I don't believe our enemies have any easier access to a Forge World than we do, so they would have to be a bit cunning in their magery," replied Blaise. "I estimate we have at least six months before the God-Machine is fully released."
"So then!" roared Sir Escanor. The hot-headed knight came to his feet. "Let us gather forces, use it as leverage, and face the Titan! One Titan cannot destroy us, we can bring it down."
"Hear hear!" Cei and several others mirrored.
"Perhaps it would be a victory, but it would be a victory with a high cost," Arthur interjected. He raised a hand for calm, and was pleased when the young knights quieted immediately. "Titans are ranked by size, and depending how big this monstrosity is, it could cause a truly devastating amount of damage before we could destroy it. Enough damage that our ability to mount a defense or an offense would become impossible, and we'd be destroyed in an instant, eaten alive by Chaos at last."
"That then is Prince Vortimer's scheme," Cador growled, "let the Titan do the hard work, then mop up what remains. Truly he is the lowest of men."
"You have a plan, I'm sure?" Blaise asked calmly, having said his piece he sat back in his chair in the dark corner.
"First," Arthur replied to his advisor, "we shall spread the news of the plot wide. Hopefully some of those who see fit to stand against us will reconsider at the reminder we have an enemy, who are scheming to end us, and laugh at our present division. In the meantime, I intend to go on a quest to seek aid from three who may give me a way to neutralize the threat without risking our infrastructure and military force. The Lady Nimue, Queen Scathach, and if we can find him King Fionn MacCool himself."
"Do Myrddin and Blaise not have enough tricks to help here?" Geriant asked.
"We were the ones to suggest the quest," Myrddin answered grimly. "Those three have access to more resources that I have been separated from for some time."
"Your relationship with them deteriorated that much?" Ector asked with a sigh.
"With Nimue and Scathach, anyway," Myrddin replied, "King Fionn hasn't been seen for a long time, which is why he is being left as a last resort." The wizard sighed. "Ultimately, I had to give up those working relationships, for what needed to be established. But they are reasonable women, I think they will understand."
"I think we need more hope that you are good at diplomacy," Guinevere whispered into Arthur's ear. "I have never met Queen Scathach, but I have met Lady Nimue, if she decides she doesn't care for a man, that man is never to be trusted again."
Arthur took a sip of mead. "I have confidence in my charm, dear Gwen."
She chuckled. "To be truthful, I think I meant mostly myself."
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Sir Cador scowling at him. "If you wish to come along to help."
"Of course I wish to help!" she said, managing to keep her voice intimate still. "Why wouldn't I?"
Arthur rose to his feet. "So it is decided, envoys will be sent to warn the other Lords, as I and my companions head north to visit the wise ones of this world."
It took longer to plan than Arthur expected, everyone having an opinion of who to send south, and whatsmore what would be a good price to pay for the hostage Knight of the Silver Gauntlets. It was dusk by the time the conversation ended, and the lords, ladies, and advisors filed out. Leaving Arthur, Cei, and Sir Cador.
Cei whispered, far more loudly and with significantly less control than Guinevere, "Sir Cador looks really mad about something."
The proud veteran stomped up. "Lord King," he said, voice carefully controlled, "May we speak alone."
Arthur leaned forward. "Anything you wish to say can be said in front of Lady Cei."
There would probably have been more argument, but Sir Cador could clearly barely contain himself. "How long have you and my charge, Lady Guinevere, been intimate?"
"We have been friends for a long time," Arthur replied calmly, "no doubt that is why-"
"Allow me to be more blunt," Cador growled, "how long have you and her been lovers?"
Arthur scowled. "I don't care to be interrupted, sir." He had to put a hand on Cei's hand, before she could draw her sword. "But Lady Guinevere is a free woman, she can do as she desires."
"You and her are practically children," Cador snarled, "I have a duty to keep her safe. What if she gets pregnant?"
"I intend to make her my High Queen, of equal importance to the Lady Agra, and above my other future wives if I take any others," Arthur replied calmly, "I assume that would be acceptable to her father. As for the pregnancy, we have been careful. A child born out of wedlock, before we get some level of peace, is dangerous to me."
"You are naive," Cador snapped, "the line of the High King of Avalon and the Imperial Governor has been kept separate for the entire planet's history! The one time this was broken, it was a tragedy beyond comparison! Lord Leondegran simply won't be able to accept this!"
Arthur looked at the man, frowning. "Sir," he said gently, "it isn't Lord Leondegran you care about, it is Lady Guinevere. It is your feelings that make you angry here, not just a belief your honor has been infringed."
The knight slumped, hanging his head. "I never had children," he said softly, "when Gorlois fell to King Uther's treachery I fled, and found myself put in charge of the protection of Lord Leondegran's only daughter. He never cared about her, past what he could get out of her through breeding. She is willful, I know this, I saw this in her, and I encouraged it. If that willfulness, if that courage to go for love and to be loved hurts her, I will never forgive myself. I know her father has an almost concrete plan as to her future, with just a bit of negotiation to go."
"Sir Cador," Arthur said. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "You are the best of men, and I swear on my honor that no harm will come to Guinevere. I refuse to allow it."
"But the Imperium," Cador whispered, "the governor…"
"The Imperium isn't here anymore. Perhaps it is time for a change, that the marriage of myself and Guinevere will represent. If there is any issue with her father, I will settle it. Believe it or not, I can be quite persuasive."
"You're a good lad, and growing into a fine man and King," Cador said softly. He raised his head. "I will stay near Lady Guinevere. She won't leave your side, no matter what I say, I know this. So I will support her in this endeavor." He leaned forward. "If you hurt her, sir…"
Arthur smiled. "You'll kill me, right?"
"At the very least, I will have to duel you to satisfaction," Cador said, answering the question in a polite manner.
"It will not come to that," Cei snapped suddenly. "Let's just have the damned ceremony tomorrow, if it is that big a problem!"
"No!" Cador and Arthur yelled at the same instant.
"Cei, if I marry Guinevere without her father's permission, it would cause even more trouble," Arthur groaned.
Cei waved her hands in the air. "Don't see why we have to care what the wretch thinks! But have it your way."
Old Cador smiled, shaking his head. "Your foster sister is a fiery one. Perhaps she speaks some truth here, however."
Arthur poured the veteran a goblet of mead, by his own hand. "Lady Cei is on occasion wise."
Cador took a long sip. "On that subject, where is your other companion, Sir Bedwyr? I had hoped to meet him. I know he was held up with a medical issue, but that was some time ago, and you did say early on he'd be joining us later."
Arthur frowned, staring into his mead. "Perhaps something held him up," he said, feeling a twinge of worry.
Blaise was dangerous. As a psyker, at any moment the power he so tentatively controlled could backfire. That day seemed to be coming closer and closer, as the war mounted in ways both physical and mystical.
"Do explain, Master Blaise," Arthur said solemnly.
"Some years ago, I traveled with King Pellinore and his squire, now the famed Sir Bedwyr. This was on the great hunt for the Questing Beast, which was successfully destroyed after a long adventure."
"At cost, of course," King Geriant sighed, stroking his chin. "Poor King Pellinore, still catatonic by all accounts."
"That was not the Questing Beast, which was disposed of through a heroic effort, but the treachery of Prince Vortimer himself, who ambushed King Pellinore while he dueled with the honorable enemy Sir Gruffyd. Both men were gravely injured in the assault. Sir Gruffyd, I saw, was taken away by the Prince of Treachery."
There was a rumble of anger and disgust across the table, for the loathed Prince Vortimer. To break the rules of chivalry so flagrantly and constantly made him the most loathed man on the planet.
Ector slammed his fist on the table. "One day I'll destroy that damned vampyre, him and his walking fortress!"
"He is one target that must be destroyed if this planet is to be fully freed," agreed Blaise, "yet what struck me was how strange that Prince Vortimer was even present there. It was, to put it bluntly, quite in the middle of nowhere, a realm on the fringe of several Chaos Lords' rule. The one landmark was the mountain called Saint Michael. Which was the site of a massive operation by the Dark Mechanicum."
"A mine, perhaps?" Enid asked. "Perhaps Prince Vortimer has stock in it?"
"Would certainly make it easier," said Blaise, "but I believe there is a darker purpose to the work. The Dark Mechanicum would hardly be needed to set up a mine, Vortimer's own thralls would have been able to handle it, if need be. No, there is a piece of technology at the center of this, at the center of the mountain, I believe."
Arthur knew full well what was coming, dramatics had its uses, but he found it a bit galling here. Better to get on with it, the clock continued to run, even if worrying about every second was a foolish exercise. He ran his fingers on the table.
Gwen, in disguise, came up over his shoulder, and bent over him to reveal his goblet. Bright gold mead, which Arthur would freely admit he wasn't fully used to. He reached out and took hold of the goblet, at the same time feeling Guinevere's fingers, her skin soft on his. He quickly, subtly, slid his finger clockwise across the joint of her finger.
She smirked at him, leaned down and whispered, "Lord Blaise does go on."
"I don't believe he wastes a word," Arthur responded, as softly, "see how rapt they are." He noticed, suddenly, that Sir Cador wasn't looking at the psyker, but instead right at him and Gwen. The older knight's eyes were grim and cold, like he was planning murder.
"A Titan, I believe," Blaise said, voice raising. "That is what I believe the Dark Ones are going for. My research into the histories state it is possible an ancient God-Machine could be buried at the site. Folklore speaks of a 'Giant of Mont Saint Michel' and I believe that is no mere ghost piloting an old Knight."
There was silence, the nobles digesting the words. "And this took three years?" Ector asked at last.
"Burrowing through so much rock, and making what repairs are needed would have taken quite a long time. I don't believe our enemies have any easier access to a Forge World than we do, so they would have to be a bit cunning in their magery," replied Blaise. "I estimate we have at least six months before the God-Machine is fully released."
"So then!" roared Sir Escanor. The hot-headed knight came to his feet. "Let us gather forces, use it as leverage, and face the Titan! One Titan cannot destroy us, we can bring it down."
"Hear hear!" Cei and several others mirrored.
"Perhaps it would be a victory, but it would be a victory with a high cost," Arthur interjected. He raised a hand for calm, and was pleased when the young knights quieted immediately. "Titans are ranked by size, and depending how big this monstrosity is, it could cause a truly devastating amount of damage before we could destroy it. Enough damage that our ability to mount a defense or an offense would become impossible, and we'd be destroyed in an instant, eaten alive by Chaos at last."
"That then is Prince Vortimer's scheme," Cador growled, "let the Titan do the hard work, then mop up what remains. Truly he is the lowest of men."
"You have a plan, I'm sure?" Blaise asked calmly, having said his piece he sat back in his chair in the dark corner.
"First," Arthur replied to his advisor, "we shall spread the news of the plot wide. Hopefully some of those who see fit to stand against us will reconsider at the reminder we have an enemy, who are scheming to end us, and laugh at our present division. In the meantime, I intend to go on a quest to seek aid from three who may give me a way to neutralize the threat without risking our infrastructure and military force. The Lady Nimue, Queen Scathach, and if we can find him King Fionn MacCool himself."
"Do Myrddin and Blaise not have enough tricks to help here?" Geriant asked.
"We were the ones to suggest the quest," Myrddin answered grimly. "Those three have access to more resources that I have been separated from for some time."
"Your relationship with them deteriorated that much?" Ector asked with a sigh.
"With Nimue and Scathach, anyway," Myrddin replied, "King Fionn hasn't been seen for a long time, which is why he is being left as a last resort." The wizard sighed. "Ultimately, I had to give up those working relationships, for what needed to be established. But they are reasonable women, I think they will understand."
"I think we need more hope that you are good at diplomacy," Guinevere whispered into Arthur's ear. "I have never met Queen Scathach, but I have met Lady Nimue, if she decides she doesn't care for a man, that man is never to be trusted again."
Arthur took a sip of mead. "I have confidence in my charm, dear Gwen."
She chuckled. "To be truthful, I think I meant mostly myself."
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Sir Cador scowling at him. "If you wish to come along to help."
"Of course I wish to help!" she said, managing to keep her voice intimate still. "Why wouldn't I?"
Arthur rose to his feet. "So it is decided, envoys will be sent to warn the other Lords, as I and my companions head north to visit the wise ones of this world."
It took longer to plan than Arthur expected, everyone having an opinion of who to send south, and whatsmore what would be a good price to pay for the hostage Knight of the Silver Gauntlets. It was dusk by the time the conversation ended, and the lords, ladies, and advisors filed out. Leaving Arthur, Cei, and Sir Cador.
Cei whispered, far more loudly and with significantly less control than Guinevere, "Sir Cador looks really mad about something."
The proud veteran stomped up. "Lord King," he said, voice carefully controlled, "May we speak alone."
Arthur leaned forward. "Anything you wish to say can be said in front of Lady Cei."
There would probably have been more argument, but Sir Cador could clearly barely contain himself. "How long have you and my charge, Lady Guinevere, been intimate?"
"We have been friends for a long time," Arthur replied calmly, "no doubt that is why-"
"Allow me to be more blunt," Cador growled, "how long have you and her been lovers?"
Arthur scowled. "I don't care to be interrupted, sir." He had to put a hand on Cei's hand, before she could draw her sword. "But Lady Guinevere is a free woman, she can do as she desires."
"You and her are practically children," Cador snarled, "I have a duty to keep her safe. What if she gets pregnant?"
"I intend to make her my High Queen, of equal importance to the Lady Agra, and above my other future wives if I take any others," Arthur replied calmly, "I assume that would be acceptable to her father. As for the pregnancy, we have been careful. A child born out of wedlock, before we get some level of peace, is dangerous to me."
"You are naive," Cador snapped, "the line of the High King of Avalon and the Imperial Governor has been kept separate for the entire planet's history! The one time this was broken, it was a tragedy beyond comparison! Lord Leondegran simply won't be able to accept this!"
Arthur looked at the man, frowning. "Sir," he said gently, "it isn't Lord Leondegran you care about, it is Lady Guinevere. It is your feelings that make you angry here, not just a belief your honor has been infringed."
The knight slumped, hanging his head. "I never had children," he said softly, "when Gorlois fell to King Uther's treachery I fled, and found myself put in charge of the protection of Lord Leondegran's only daughter. He never cared about her, past what he could get out of her through breeding. She is willful, I know this, I saw this in her, and I encouraged it. If that willfulness, if that courage to go for love and to be loved hurts her, I will never forgive myself. I know her father has an almost concrete plan as to her future, with just a bit of negotiation to go."
"Sir Cador," Arthur said. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "You are the best of men, and I swear on my honor that no harm will come to Guinevere. I refuse to allow it."
"But the Imperium," Cador whispered, "the governor…"
"The Imperium isn't here anymore. Perhaps it is time for a change, that the marriage of myself and Guinevere will represent. If there is any issue with her father, I will settle it. Believe it or not, I can be quite persuasive."
"You're a good lad, and growing into a fine man and King," Cador said softly. He raised his head. "I will stay near Lady Guinevere. She won't leave your side, no matter what I say, I know this. So I will support her in this endeavor." He leaned forward. "If you hurt her, sir…"
Arthur smiled. "You'll kill me, right?"
"At the very least, I will have to duel you to satisfaction," Cador said, answering the question in a polite manner.
"It will not come to that," Cei snapped suddenly. "Let's just have the damned ceremony tomorrow, if it is that big a problem!"
"No!" Cador and Arthur yelled at the same instant.
"Cei, if I marry Guinevere without her father's permission, it would cause even more trouble," Arthur groaned.
Cei waved her hands in the air. "Don't see why we have to care what the wretch thinks! But have it your way."
Old Cador smiled, shaking his head. "Your foster sister is a fiery one. Perhaps she speaks some truth here, however."
Arthur poured the veteran a goblet of mead, by his own hand. "Lady Cei is on occasion wise."
Cador took a long sip. "On that subject, where is your other companion, Sir Bedwyr? I had hoped to meet him. I know he was held up with a medical issue, but that was some time ago, and you did say early on he'd be joining us later."
Arthur frowned, staring into his mead. "Perhaps something held him up," he said, feeling a twinge of worry.
Always Late
Lacking in coffee, sleep, and brains
- Location
- Ohio
So here's the question: Is this going to be Dawn of War's Dominator of Lorn V, or another Castigator of Chaeronia?
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
If it is some kind of Archeotech, no wonder they'd be all over that mountain.
Oh, that is big.
Oh my!
Heh.
Bedwyr:
Plans at Caer Leon Part Three
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
The moment Bedwyr stepped from the car, something felt wrong. His foot didn't hurt anymore, but it still didn't feel much like anything. He was wary of putting weight on it, but once he was in the open, among warriors, he gently rebuffed Vivian's attempts to help him stand. He didn't mind the aid, and quite liked her body against his, but he also knew that being seen as weak in any way would open him to attack.
The war camp was filled with people, and every knight nearby was watching as he emerged. The young Marshal Bedwyr, who'd bested Sir Lancelot twice, even though he wasn't even into his twenties yet. He could feel the desire to challenge him, a young upstart near the right hand of the High King, with a magic sword, a damsel lover, and wealth inherited from King Pellinore. Beat him in battle, and perhaps all that would become the victor's.
The first to approach him, a lady knight in the colors of a minor house, only gripped his hand in the warrior's greeting, and gave him a cheerful greeting, an offer to dine with her and her fellows, which Bedwyr promised to consider.
Bedwyr watched as she left, returning to her camp, wondering what she was after.
"No doubt," Vivian whispered in his ear, "she wants to make a play for you joining her house. Technically, you are still houseless. King Pellinore never officially adopted you, and King Arthur is strange for not having a house of his own. You are a freeblade, my dear, and a very valuable get."
"Is this a roundabout way to say she wishes to bed me?" Bedwyr asked with a wry smile.
She pouted. "That isn't all I think about. Though marriage might be part of such a process."
"I have no interest in having more than one wife," Bedwyr said solemnly. "I'm not Gawain or King Arthur."
She smiled then, mischievously. "Do you have a bride in mind, sir?"
Before he could reply, another knight came running over. The man, however, was a familiar face. "Palamedes!" Bedwyr cried, grabbing his fellow campaigner in a tight hug. "It feels like a long time!"
Palamedes returned the hug, but seemed a bit on edge. "Bedwyr," he said softly, "I hear that you have been injured, that you've gone through surgery."
"Not for the first time, Palamedes," Bedwyr said calmly, "just an issue with the old foot."
Palamedes looked down at it, as if to inspect it. "Caine's Spear, Sir Bedwyr, it looks like it is barely holding together."
"It'll do," Bedwyr replied stiffly, "for now."
Before Palamedes could respond, Bedwyr moved past him. "Is Sir Gowther here as well?"
"Scouting at present," Palamedes muttered, scowling at being ignored. "Should be back later tonight."
"Good," Bedwyr replied, "and Sir Bedwin?"
"Taking charge of that priest you brought as prisoner," Palamedes said stiffly, "he'll be busy with that for a while. Bedwyr, it doesn't do to ignore issues."
"It has been handled, it doesn't hurt, it holds my weight, that's enough for now."
"It does seem alright for now," Vivian said to Palamedes as they walked, "it is stripped down at present, but he is right, it is working." She didn't voice the 'for now'.
Bedwyr found he didn't like being worried after. He frowned darkly, it wasn't as if he didn't have it under control. Worst came to worst, he'd just cut the damned thing off.
He moved a little faster, almost jogging. As he moved, he felt a jolt run up his leg. There was no pain, so he ignored it. In fact, he didn't feel much there at all.
Lucen was walking nearby, accompanied by a heavily augmented tech adept. The one who had been castaway here, the one who had integrated seamlessly into the structure of the locals.
"Lucen!" Bedwyr called. "Brother!"
Lucen looked over, waving with his metal hand. His looked so well-maintained, so clean compared to his. "Sir Bedwyr," he said with a half smile. "I see Lady Vivian right behind you. You are a lucky devil."
"Jealousy doesn't become you, Lucen." He claps his shoulder. "Hello Vent, are things going well?" His gothic was halting, and sounded rough in his ears.
"Well enough," the adept replied, "the butler and I have been running a census, seeing how many warriors have come to King Arthur's banner." The tech-priest fiddled with a set of paper. "The work is far more rewarding than the minor work on board Prydwen, though I do miss the comfort of the familiar ventilation system. New experiences are to be enjoyed, I look forward to helping with the Knights, especially King Arthur's great archeo machine." The priest continued to ramble on. Then their eyes, still flesh, drifted downward and widened. "Sir Bedwyr, are you aware that your foot is bleeding profusely?"
Arthur walked from the great hall into his personal suite, trying to think about the war to come and not his confrontation with Cador, and his sudden worry over Bedwyr. He had a terrible feeling, a certain instinct he knew not to ignore.
Guinevere was standing outside his door, still disguised as a servant, head bowed in respect.
"You don't have to do that," Arthur said to her with a sigh.
She looked up, smiling. "It is all part of the role I'm currently playing."
"For whom, no one is here but you and I?" Arthur asked.
She reached up and pulled back her hood, and her smile became a little inviting. "Are we indeed?"
Arthur definitely felt an immediate urge to take advantage of that invitation. But it was outweighed by his general exhaustion and his sense of foreboding. "I apologize, Lady, but I think I need to rest this night."
"I understand," she said. "Do I have permission to take my rest beside you, Lord King?"
"Of course," Arthur replied. He walked into his room, and began to disrobe. Gwen was beside him in an instant, helping him remove the more elaborate parts of Arthur's new royal costume. Once he was naked, Arthur sat down on the bed. He looked away as his lover started to remove her clothing as well.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly.
"Cador talked to me about us. He found out about our relationship."
Guinevere sat down next to him. "I could have been more discreet, I suppose. Was he upset?"
"Only on your behalf," Arthur assured her, "he's worried I'm a rake who seduced you into a dangerous situation. I assured him of my intentions."
"And what are your intentions?" Guinevere asked, her mouth close to his ear.
Before Arthur could reply, there was a ramming on the door, a flurry of knocks. Springing to his feet, Arthur pulled on his trousers and rushed to the door.
A pale Lucen was standing behind it. The butler cried, "It's Bedwyr. My brother. He might be dying."
The war camp was filled with people, and every knight nearby was watching as he emerged. The young Marshal Bedwyr, who'd bested Sir Lancelot twice, even though he wasn't even into his twenties yet. He could feel the desire to challenge him, a young upstart near the right hand of the High King, with a magic sword, a damsel lover, and wealth inherited from King Pellinore. Beat him in battle, and perhaps all that would become the victor's.
The first to approach him, a lady knight in the colors of a minor house, only gripped his hand in the warrior's greeting, and gave him a cheerful greeting, an offer to dine with her and her fellows, which Bedwyr promised to consider.
Bedwyr watched as she left, returning to her camp, wondering what she was after.
"No doubt," Vivian whispered in his ear, "she wants to make a play for you joining her house. Technically, you are still houseless. King Pellinore never officially adopted you, and King Arthur is strange for not having a house of his own. You are a freeblade, my dear, and a very valuable get."
"Is this a roundabout way to say she wishes to bed me?" Bedwyr asked with a wry smile.
She pouted. "That isn't all I think about. Though marriage might be part of such a process."
"I have no interest in having more than one wife," Bedwyr said solemnly. "I'm not Gawain or King Arthur."
She smiled then, mischievously. "Do you have a bride in mind, sir?"
Before he could reply, another knight came running over. The man, however, was a familiar face. "Palamedes!" Bedwyr cried, grabbing his fellow campaigner in a tight hug. "It feels like a long time!"
Palamedes returned the hug, but seemed a bit on edge. "Bedwyr," he said softly, "I hear that you have been injured, that you've gone through surgery."
"Not for the first time, Palamedes," Bedwyr said calmly, "just an issue with the old foot."
Palamedes looked down at it, as if to inspect it. "Caine's Spear, Sir Bedwyr, it looks like it is barely holding together."
"It'll do," Bedwyr replied stiffly, "for now."
Before Palamedes could respond, Bedwyr moved past him. "Is Sir Gowther here as well?"
"Scouting at present," Palamedes muttered, scowling at being ignored. "Should be back later tonight."
"Good," Bedwyr replied, "and Sir Bedwin?"
"Taking charge of that priest you brought as prisoner," Palamedes said stiffly, "he'll be busy with that for a while. Bedwyr, it doesn't do to ignore issues."
"It has been handled, it doesn't hurt, it holds my weight, that's enough for now."
"It does seem alright for now," Vivian said to Palamedes as they walked, "it is stripped down at present, but he is right, it is working." She didn't voice the 'for now'.
Bedwyr found he didn't like being worried after. He frowned darkly, it wasn't as if he didn't have it under control. Worst came to worst, he'd just cut the damned thing off.
He moved a little faster, almost jogging. As he moved, he felt a jolt run up his leg. There was no pain, so he ignored it. In fact, he didn't feel much there at all.
Lucen was walking nearby, accompanied by a heavily augmented tech adept. The one who had been castaway here, the one who had integrated seamlessly into the structure of the locals.
"Lucen!" Bedwyr called. "Brother!"
Lucen looked over, waving with his metal hand. His looked so well-maintained, so clean compared to his. "Sir Bedwyr," he said with a half smile. "I see Lady Vivian right behind you. You are a lucky devil."
"Jealousy doesn't become you, Lucen." He claps his shoulder. "Hello Vent, are things going well?" His gothic was halting, and sounded rough in his ears.
"Well enough," the adept replied, "the butler and I have been running a census, seeing how many warriors have come to King Arthur's banner." The tech-priest fiddled with a set of paper. "The work is far more rewarding than the minor work on board Prydwen, though I do miss the comfort of the familiar ventilation system. New experiences are to be enjoyed, I look forward to helping with the Knights, especially King Arthur's great archeo machine." The priest continued to ramble on. Then their eyes, still flesh, drifted downward and widened. "Sir Bedwyr, are you aware that your foot is bleeding profusely?"
**************
Arthur walked from the great hall into his personal suite, trying to think about the war to come and not his confrontation with Cador, and his sudden worry over Bedwyr. He had a terrible feeling, a certain instinct he knew not to ignore.
Guinevere was standing outside his door, still disguised as a servant, head bowed in respect.
"You don't have to do that," Arthur said to her with a sigh.
She looked up, smiling. "It is all part of the role I'm currently playing."
"For whom, no one is here but you and I?" Arthur asked.
She reached up and pulled back her hood, and her smile became a little inviting. "Are we indeed?"
Arthur definitely felt an immediate urge to take advantage of that invitation. But it was outweighed by his general exhaustion and his sense of foreboding. "I apologize, Lady, but I think I need to rest this night."
"I understand," she said. "Do I have permission to take my rest beside you, Lord King?"
"Of course," Arthur replied. He walked into his room, and began to disrobe. Gwen was beside him in an instant, helping him remove the more elaborate parts of Arthur's new royal costume. Once he was naked, Arthur sat down on the bed. He looked away as his lover started to remove her clothing as well.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly.
"Cador talked to me about us. He found out about our relationship."
Guinevere sat down next to him. "I could have been more discreet, I suppose. Was he upset?"
"Only on your behalf," Arthur assured her, "he's worried I'm a rake who seduced you into a dangerous situation. I assured him of my intentions."
"And what are your intentions?" Guinevere asked, her mouth close to his ear.
Before Arthur could reply, there was a ramming on the door, a flurry of knocks. Springing to his feet, Arthur pulled on his trousers and rushed to the door.
A pale Lucen was standing behind it. The butler cried, "It's Bedwyr. My brother. He might be dying."
Last edited:
- Location
- Dethklok
there's a word missing there
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
I have a bad feeling about this.
Hah!
It will be nice to see him again.
"To show them how terrifying a rake is."
At the Bloodstained Fort Part One
MysticKnightJoe
Defender of Holy Terra
- Location
- Fighting the Forces of Evil Across the Cosmos
Culhwch stared at the door. It was the same as any other door in the Horned King's madhouse of a fortress, but it was transformed by the fact it was the door to the room the Green Knight had taken. The alien warrior transformed the mundane into the lair of something old and powerful and unknowable.
Lady Olwen had told him she'd meet him here, but she was nowhere to be seen. He'd recognize her coming just by her floral scent, which he'd be able to pick out over the smell of blood and strange sorcery that seemed to permeate this place. He wondered if that was a sign his body had changed somehow. Quickly, he decided that he didn't want to dwell on that.
The door opened suddenly, breaking his thoughts. The Green Knight peered through, face still concealed under his smooth bone-like helmet. "Sir Culhwch. You've been standing outside my door for some time."
Culhwch nodded stiffly. "Sorry, I was just waiting for Lady Olwen, she wished to speak with you, about the subject of your kind." He felt awkward, trying to find a way to describe it.
"Yes, Lady Olwen," the Green Knight said slowly, "come in, sir, we have matters to speak of before the Flower Maiden arrives."
"Do we?" Culhwch asked, starting to back away from the open door. It struck him like the cave of an ancient beast, and the ax at the Green Knight's side looked especially sharp.
"We do," the alien replied.
A hand seized Culhwch's shoulder, so fast he never even saw it move. With shocking inhuman strength, the alien warrior pulled him inside before he could think to resist.
Within, the bed was still made and unused. The only sign of habitation was a little fire over which was steaming a pot of something that smelled delectable and calming. The Green Knight moved there, and from the pot poured an amber liquid into a cup. "I apologize for my impetuousness, but we have little time to bandy words in full view of others, and this must be discussed before Lady Olwen arrives."
Culhwch took the offered cup, but didn't drink. It was often said, after all, to never drink anything given by a being of the Otherworld. "I doubt I am that interesting," he said stiffly.
"You went into the Cauldron, and came out something very interesting, I assure you," the Green Knight replied. "That is just tea, and I would be unable to poison you with any scant lore I possess, I promise you. Not as you are now."
Culhwch took a sip of the tea, and found it refreshing and of a certain mellow flavor. "Do you know what it did?" he asked.
"All I know of the Cauldron is that it was discovered in this world in the earliest days of my people's settlement. We used it only in the most extreme circumstances, and now it is corrupted by overuse and prone to strangeness."
"I'm surprised, I thought Danu would have used it in her great enchantments," Culhwch said grimly, "you hear tales of that."
The Green Knight laughed. "My grandmother would not be so foolish, I assure you. What she did was from understanding our technologies, that is all."
"I see you may indeed have a wealth of information," Culhwch said. He set down the cup. "Truly, you are that ancient?"
"By the standards of men and the eldar both, yes, though perhaps not so old as you are thinking. Not so much that I have lost physical feeling. I remain the Knight of Green Fields and Growing Things."
"Do you not have a proper name? You said your Grandmother was the High Enchantress of your Kind, surely-"
"Of course I have a name!" declared the Green Knight haughtily. "But I do not speak it here, not in the thick of the archenemy! Names hold great power, just ask that poor fool Jason Blood! The archenemy is duplicitous and cunning. Much that seems of mundane matter is of great sorcerous meaning to their enchantments! Which comes, of course, to what you and I must speak of, as two males of our respective specieses, regarding a woman."
Culhwch scowled in response. "If you mean Lady Olwen, I assure you my intentions are pure."
"Liar. You humans are so strange, hiding your desires and wants so utterly. I can scent her on you, and your lust is very clear."
"Mabon ap Modron said much the same," Culhwch said dryly, "perhaps you two aren't so different."
"We are both broken, in a way, but that is all we have in common." The expressionless mask concealed the alien's face, but Culhwch could sense the scowl. "Mabon has adapted to the universe in a way that I refuse to. Even his very name on this world is a false one." The alien reached into his armor, and produced a rod which he placed into his own cup, taking a sip through it. He only placed it against his mask, but the tea started to disappear just the same. "Still, I must speak quickly, as she is coming soon, and when she does I will answer her questions gladly. Lady Olwen is in danger. From the moment of her birth, she was in danger."
"What do you mean?" Culhwch asked.
"Perhaps you have noticed, that for a mutant, born to a follower of the Ruinous Powers, one on this world who aspires to become a Prince, a true and proper apostle of Chaos, she seems quite innocent and gentle?"
"Yes," Culhwch replied, "is it an act then?"
"No." The Green Knight set down his cup. "It is not. Lady Olwen, I suspect, has been raised rather sheltered. Her father is known to you, yes? Ysbaddaden. A Chaos Lord who serves He Who Thirsts. Therein lies the key. I know that particular enemy well, Sir Culhwch. I have to know him well. There is nothing that he relishes more than the chance to ravage and corrupt something innocent and beautiful."
Culhwch's heart lurched. "She's a sacrifice. His own daughter?"
"For such a man, those which should be of the highest value are but pawns. The Horned King got her as hostage in one of those most deadly power plays. Ysbaddaden will be growing desperate, and will be coming here for the tournament. He will want to expedite the ritual of sacrifice, I believe."
"Why are you telling me this?" Culhwch asked, stiffly.
"Because anything that interferes in the machinations of Chaos, even the smallest pebble in front of their endless wheel, is of the deepest good."
"But why do you care enough to warn me of Olwen? Why not simply kill her?"
"I have no wish to kill her."
"Your kind were always said to be feral and cruel, pitiless and frenzied in battle," Culhwch responded, clenching his fists, "what do you expect me to do with this information? Better you be hard-hearted and cruel."
"The sacrifice won't matter so much, it won't bring him to Princehood. He will never reach Princehood, in fact, he's been tricked and lied to. Perhaps it is a cruelty, or perhaps he doesn't care what he is made to do anymore. Regardless, help me in the arena, and I will help you and Lady Olwen escape."
"I see, so that is your angle. What makes you think I care for her so much, beyond her being a warm body and good lay?"
"It has been some time since I started interacting with humans on a regular basis once again, but already I can read you well enough." The Green Knight sighed. "More to the point, Culhwch, I know that you aren't a wicked man, or a cruel one. You wish to escape this place, and if you can, you'd wish to take an innocent woman out with you."
Culhwch nodded. "Sir Bran as well." He scowled darkly. "Maybe even Jason Blood and Mabon." He stared at the alien. "It is Mabon you are trying to free, right?"
Before the Green Knight could reply, there were footsteps outside the door, and a familiar smell, followed by a gentle rapping on the door. Lady Olwen came in at the Green Knight's welcome, shyly kissing Culhwch then sitting down. She had paper and a writing implement ready, her extra pair of hands folded behind her back.
Culhwch mostly found himself staring at her, as she asked question after question about the ancient rulers of the planet Avalon. Was it true that she existed solely as a pawn in her cruel father's quest for Godhood? Despite himself, the very idea sickened him, and he felt a rage building in the pit of his stomach. He forced it down. The last thing he needed was to become a berserker on top of everything. So he sat quietly, as the Lady asked the Green Knight as much as she could.
Sometime later, Culhwch and Olwen found themselves walking on the high wall of the Horned King's Fortress. The view was desolate, even the sea seemed lifeless, more brown than blue. But it was the first time Culhwch had felt fresh air untainted by the stench of bloodshed for a long time.
"He was most helpful," Olwen said suddenly, turning to smile at him. "I do hope I can talk with him more before the tournament."
"I'm certain he will be amenable," Culhwch replied. He found he had trouble looking at her.
She slipped beside him, looking out across the plains. "Is something wrong? You were speaking with him before me. What did he say?"
"That you were born to be a sacrifice," Culhwch said. He didn't feel right lying to her, and found he was a very poor one anyway. "That your father will have you killed on the altar of He Who Thirsts, as part of his strive for Godhood."
"It won't work," Olwen answered with a grimace.
"You don't doubt it?" Culwch turned to her in surprise.
She smiled sadly up at him. "My father is cold and cruel. I was raised away from him, in a hanging garden. He only visited occasionally, to check on me I suspect. Really, aside from missing the flowers of the garden, it was something of a relief when The Horned King Diwranch got me away from there. He even gave me free reign, to some extent." She laughed. "He told my father he'd make sure I didn't lose my virginity, but I suspect he barely cares to keep that promise, if you being allowed near me is any indication."
Despite himself, Culhwch laughed. "In truth, I never thought the God of Lust would care much about such matters."
"Only in sacrifices," she replied, with an amused twinkle in her eyes. "Though I don't think it will matter too much, at the end of the day," she added darkly.
"It won't happen," Culhwch said, suddenly, "I intend to escape this place, and you will be with me."
"With Sir Bran? I do hope he is ok with that," she said dryly, "the Imperium will hardly accept us."
"That's why I'm not planning to go to the Imperium. Somewhere safe on Avalon, tucked away in a mountain. Maybe even off-world if we can manage it."
"Only Lady Tuesday could possibly manage that, and though I don't dislike her, I also don't trust her," Olwen noted glumly, "still, a nice little cottage tucked away in the mountains sounds lovely, with a little garden."
Might as well dream, Culhwch decided.
"I'd like to first make love in a garden, among flowers, but perhaps fresh air is good enough," Olwn said, moving a little closer to him.
"Think on it a little," Culhwch told her, letting her practically embrace him. "The air is quite nice, but the stone is rough, and the view isn't exactly romantic."
"Shall we see where it goes then?" she stood on tip-toes, leaning for a kiss.
Before he could oblige, Culhwch suddenly noticed something approaching on the horizon, approaching at a rapid march. Even from such a distance, he could make out clear details. The marchers all wore bright red headwear, and in the center of them was a knight-sized figure, being dragged along. It seemed to be nothing but a red blob, but it seemed to shift and sway and writhe as it was pulled around.
Olwen looked where he was looking, and paled. "Powries," she hissed, "I guess they are coming early."
"I was fortunate to never have to fight them while I was on campaign," Culhwch said grimly. He tried to make out further details of the covered figure. "That's one of their gods, isn't it?"
"I hope not," Olwen said, shaking a little. "Because they will set it on the Green Knight, and you have decided to fight with the Green Knight, I suspect."
"It is part of the plan, and we both expect horrors. It will be alright, Lady Olwen, I promise you." They kissed, but any romantic desire had fled with the sight of the mutant army. Shortly after, they started to walk back within.
Turning back one time, Culhwch saw the powries and their god draw closer, and could have sworn he saw it begin to writhe and twist, and hear a strange shrieking cry on the wind.
Once Olwen had returned to her room, after a farewell kiss, Culhwch started to run towards Sir Bran's room. Things were escalating, and they needed to plan now. Without thinking, he yanked the door open, rushing inside, slamming it shut beside him.
"I apologize, Sir Bran, but we must talk now," he said rapidly, "the armies of Chaos are starting to amass, and we need to plan our escape soon."
Bran was seated on his bed, almost tucked into the corner. The younger knight was pale, terrified. "Sir Culhwch," he croaked out, quivering, "please, get out of here!"
His eyes were looking past Sir Culhwch, to the other side of the room. The poor man's eyes were almost mad with terror.
Culhwch swallowed. "Jason Blood isn't here, right?"
"Blood has fled deep within again." The voice that answered, from the other bed, was ancient, rasping, and full of something volcanic and primordial.
Culhwch turned slowly, suddenly more terrified than he had ever been in his entire life.
The thing seated on Jason Blood's bed was a yellow-scaled creature, wearing a bright red tunic and blue cape. The scales were slashed all over with old and deep scars, and the hideous reptilian face was wrinkled like an ancient oak, with a massive gouge taken out of its ear and eye. The one remaining eye, a bright glowing red, stared straight into Culhwch's soul with sheer unending malevolence. The daemonhost grinned. "And so you meet the daemon Etrigan."
Lady Olwen had told him she'd meet him here, but she was nowhere to be seen. He'd recognize her coming just by her floral scent, which he'd be able to pick out over the smell of blood and strange sorcery that seemed to permeate this place. He wondered if that was a sign his body had changed somehow. Quickly, he decided that he didn't want to dwell on that.
The door opened suddenly, breaking his thoughts. The Green Knight peered through, face still concealed under his smooth bone-like helmet. "Sir Culhwch. You've been standing outside my door for some time."
Culhwch nodded stiffly. "Sorry, I was just waiting for Lady Olwen, she wished to speak with you, about the subject of your kind." He felt awkward, trying to find a way to describe it.
"Yes, Lady Olwen," the Green Knight said slowly, "come in, sir, we have matters to speak of before the Flower Maiden arrives."
"Do we?" Culhwch asked, starting to back away from the open door. It struck him like the cave of an ancient beast, and the ax at the Green Knight's side looked especially sharp.
"We do," the alien replied.
A hand seized Culhwch's shoulder, so fast he never even saw it move. With shocking inhuman strength, the alien warrior pulled him inside before he could think to resist.
Within, the bed was still made and unused. The only sign of habitation was a little fire over which was steaming a pot of something that smelled delectable and calming. The Green Knight moved there, and from the pot poured an amber liquid into a cup. "I apologize for my impetuousness, but we have little time to bandy words in full view of others, and this must be discussed before Lady Olwen arrives."
Culhwch took the offered cup, but didn't drink. It was often said, after all, to never drink anything given by a being of the Otherworld. "I doubt I am that interesting," he said stiffly.
"You went into the Cauldron, and came out something very interesting, I assure you," the Green Knight replied. "That is just tea, and I would be unable to poison you with any scant lore I possess, I promise you. Not as you are now."
Culhwch took a sip of the tea, and found it refreshing and of a certain mellow flavor. "Do you know what it did?" he asked.
"All I know of the Cauldron is that it was discovered in this world in the earliest days of my people's settlement. We used it only in the most extreme circumstances, and now it is corrupted by overuse and prone to strangeness."
"I'm surprised, I thought Danu would have used it in her great enchantments," Culhwch said grimly, "you hear tales of that."
The Green Knight laughed. "My grandmother would not be so foolish, I assure you. What she did was from understanding our technologies, that is all."
"I see you may indeed have a wealth of information," Culhwch said. He set down the cup. "Truly, you are that ancient?"
"By the standards of men and the eldar both, yes, though perhaps not so old as you are thinking. Not so much that I have lost physical feeling. I remain the Knight of Green Fields and Growing Things."
"Do you not have a proper name? You said your Grandmother was the High Enchantress of your Kind, surely-"
"Of course I have a name!" declared the Green Knight haughtily. "But I do not speak it here, not in the thick of the archenemy! Names hold great power, just ask that poor fool Jason Blood! The archenemy is duplicitous and cunning. Much that seems of mundane matter is of great sorcerous meaning to their enchantments! Which comes, of course, to what you and I must speak of, as two males of our respective specieses, regarding a woman."
Culhwch scowled in response. "If you mean Lady Olwen, I assure you my intentions are pure."
"Liar. You humans are so strange, hiding your desires and wants so utterly. I can scent her on you, and your lust is very clear."
"Mabon ap Modron said much the same," Culhwch said dryly, "perhaps you two aren't so different."
"We are both broken, in a way, but that is all we have in common." The expressionless mask concealed the alien's face, but Culhwch could sense the scowl. "Mabon has adapted to the universe in a way that I refuse to. Even his very name on this world is a false one." The alien reached into his armor, and produced a rod which he placed into his own cup, taking a sip through it. He only placed it against his mask, but the tea started to disappear just the same. "Still, I must speak quickly, as she is coming soon, and when she does I will answer her questions gladly. Lady Olwen is in danger. From the moment of her birth, she was in danger."
"What do you mean?" Culhwch asked.
"Perhaps you have noticed, that for a mutant, born to a follower of the Ruinous Powers, one on this world who aspires to become a Prince, a true and proper apostle of Chaos, she seems quite innocent and gentle?"
"Yes," Culhwch replied, "is it an act then?"
"No." The Green Knight set down his cup. "It is not. Lady Olwen, I suspect, has been raised rather sheltered. Her father is known to you, yes? Ysbaddaden. A Chaos Lord who serves He Who Thirsts. Therein lies the key. I know that particular enemy well, Sir Culhwch. I have to know him well. There is nothing that he relishes more than the chance to ravage and corrupt something innocent and beautiful."
Culhwch's heart lurched. "She's a sacrifice. His own daughter?"
"For such a man, those which should be of the highest value are but pawns. The Horned King got her as hostage in one of those most deadly power plays. Ysbaddaden will be growing desperate, and will be coming here for the tournament. He will want to expedite the ritual of sacrifice, I believe."
"Why are you telling me this?" Culhwch asked, stiffly.
"Because anything that interferes in the machinations of Chaos, even the smallest pebble in front of their endless wheel, is of the deepest good."
"But why do you care enough to warn me of Olwen? Why not simply kill her?"
"I have no wish to kill her."
"Your kind were always said to be feral and cruel, pitiless and frenzied in battle," Culhwch responded, clenching his fists, "what do you expect me to do with this information? Better you be hard-hearted and cruel."
"The sacrifice won't matter so much, it won't bring him to Princehood. He will never reach Princehood, in fact, he's been tricked and lied to. Perhaps it is a cruelty, or perhaps he doesn't care what he is made to do anymore. Regardless, help me in the arena, and I will help you and Lady Olwen escape."
"I see, so that is your angle. What makes you think I care for her so much, beyond her being a warm body and good lay?"
"It has been some time since I started interacting with humans on a regular basis once again, but already I can read you well enough." The Green Knight sighed. "More to the point, Culhwch, I know that you aren't a wicked man, or a cruel one. You wish to escape this place, and if you can, you'd wish to take an innocent woman out with you."
Culhwch nodded. "Sir Bran as well." He scowled darkly. "Maybe even Jason Blood and Mabon." He stared at the alien. "It is Mabon you are trying to free, right?"
Before the Green Knight could reply, there were footsteps outside the door, and a familiar smell, followed by a gentle rapping on the door. Lady Olwen came in at the Green Knight's welcome, shyly kissing Culhwch then sitting down. She had paper and a writing implement ready, her extra pair of hands folded behind her back.
Culhwch mostly found himself staring at her, as she asked question after question about the ancient rulers of the planet Avalon. Was it true that she existed solely as a pawn in her cruel father's quest for Godhood? Despite himself, the very idea sickened him, and he felt a rage building in the pit of his stomach. He forced it down. The last thing he needed was to become a berserker on top of everything. So he sat quietly, as the Lady asked the Green Knight as much as she could.
***************
Sometime later, Culhwch and Olwen found themselves walking on the high wall of the Horned King's Fortress. The view was desolate, even the sea seemed lifeless, more brown than blue. But it was the first time Culhwch had felt fresh air untainted by the stench of bloodshed for a long time.
"He was most helpful," Olwen said suddenly, turning to smile at him. "I do hope I can talk with him more before the tournament."
"I'm certain he will be amenable," Culhwch replied. He found he had trouble looking at her.
She slipped beside him, looking out across the plains. "Is something wrong? You were speaking with him before me. What did he say?"
"That you were born to be a sacrifice," Culhwch said. He didn't feel right lying to her, and found he was a very poor one anyway. "That your father will have you killed on the altar of He Who Thirsts, as part of his strive for Godhood."
"It won't work," Olwen answered with a grimace.
"You don't doubt it?" Culwch turned to her in surprise.
She smiled sadly up at him. "My father is cold and cruel. I was raised away from him, in a hanging garden. He only visited occasionally, to check on me I suspect. Really, aside from missing the flowers of the garden, it was something of a relief when The Horned King Diwranch got me away from there. He even gave me free reign, to some extent." She laughed. "He told my father he'd make sure I didn't lose my virginity, but I suspect he barely cares to keep that promise, if you being allowed near me is any indication."
Despite himself, Culhwch laughed. "In truth, I never thought the God of Lust would care much about such matters."
"Only in sacrifices," she replied, with an amused twinkle in her eyes. "Though I don't think it will matter too much, at the end of the day," she added darkly.
"It won't happen," Culhwch said, suddenly, "I intend to escape this place, and you will be with me."
"With Sir Bran? I do hope he is ok with that," she said dryly, "the Imperium will hardly accept us."
"That's why I'm not planning to go to the Imperium. Somewhere safe on Avalon, tucked away in a mountain. Maybe even off-world if we can manage it."
"Only Lady Tuesday could possibly manage that, and though I don't dislike her, I also don't trust her," Olwen noted glumly, "still, a nice little cottage tucked away in the mountains sounds lovely, with a little garden."
Might as well dream, Culhwch decided.
"I'd like to first make love in a garden, among flowers, but perhaps fresh air is good enough," Olwn said, moving a little closer to him.
"Think on it a little," Culhwch told her, letting her practically embrace him. "The air is quite nice, but the stone is rough, and the view isn't exactly romantic."
"Shall we see where it goes then?" she stood on tip-toes, leaning for a kiss.
Before he could oblige, Culhwch suddenly noticed something approaching on the horizon, approaching at a rapid march. Even from such a distance, he could make out clear details. The marchers all wore bright red headwear, and in the center of them was a knight-sized figure, being dragged along. It seemed to be nothing but a red blob, but it seemed to shift and sway and writhe as it was pulled around.
Olwen looked where he was looking, and paled. "Powries," she hissed, "I guess they are coming early."
"I was fortunate to never have to fight them while I was on campaign," Culhwch said grimly. He tried to make out further details of the covered figure. "That's one of their gods, isn't it?"
"I hope not," Olwen said, shaking a little. "Because they will set it on the Green Knight, and you have decided to fight with the Green Knight, I suspect."
"It is part of the plan, and we both expect horrors. It will be alright, Lady Olwen, I promise you." They kissed, but any romantic desire had fled with the sight of the mutant army. Shortly after, they started to walk back within.
Turning back one time, Culhwch saw the powries and their god draw closer, and could have sworn he saw it begin to writhe and twist, and hear a strange shrieking cry on the wind.
Once Olwen had returned to her room, after a farewell kiss, Culhwch started to run towards Sir Bran's room. Things were escalating, and they needed to plan now. Without thinking, he yanked the door open, rushing inside, slamming it shut beside him.
"I apologize, Sir Bran, but we must talk now," he said rapidly, "the armies of Chaos are starting to amass, and we need to plan our escape soon."
Bran was seated on his bed, almost tucked into the corner. The younger knight was pale, terrified. "Sir Culhwch," he croaked out, quivering, "please, get out of here!"
His eyes were looking past Sir Culhwch, to the other side of the room. The poor man's eyes were almost mad with terror.
Culhwch swallowed. "Jason Blood isn't here, right?"
"Blood has fled deep within again." The voice that answered, from the other bed, was ancient, rasping, and full of something volcanic and primordial.
Culhwch turned slowly, suddenly more terrified than he had ever been in his entire life.
The thing seated on Jason Blood's bed was a yellow-scaled creature, wearing a bright red tunic and blue cape. The scales were slashed all over with old and deep scars, and the hideous reptilian face was wrinkled like an ancient oak, with a massive gouge taken out of its ear and eye. The one remaining eye, a bright glowing red, stared straight into Culhwch's soul with sheer unending malevolence. The daemonhost grinned. "And so you meet the daemon Etrigan."
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