Knights With No Lords

The Knights with No Lords: Epilogue – A Ray of Hope

Posted by Rock Kitaro on March 27, 2019
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In the aftermath of the Tristan and Isolde tragedy…

Epilogue
The Knights with No Lords: Epilogue – A Ray of Hope
By Rock Kitaro
Date – December 30, 2018

The day Isolde died marked the beginning of a turbulent period of warfare and violence. King Lot broke his pact with the Roman Emperor and declared autonomy for Kingdom of Lothian and Orkney. Vortigern began invading south into territories protected by King Mark of Cornwall. Even without the Lion of Dumnonia, High King Vortigern soon discovered that Cornwall was still force to be reckoned with.

Gawain and Morgan Le Fay would go on to defend Tintagel from every incursion thrown at their doorsteps. No matter how many legions came, no matter how many monsters or magical devices stormed with the threat of impending disaster, Gawain and Morgan stood in defiance. They were unstoppable. Their love and dependence on each other grew as they did in age and maturity.

At night, they’d have each other in secret. During the day, she’d assist him on the battlefield. More frightening than a fire-breathing dragon was the sight of Morgan and Gawain mounted side by side on their fuming horses under Tintagel’s black and gold banners.

Agravain was always in the vanguard, ready and eager to sink his teeth in. The shrewd, Gaheris always had his bow and wore an unbreakable visor to protect his beautiful face. Constantine was a captain and became the youngest Lord Chamberlain in Tintagel history, honoring his late father. No other kingdom in Britannia had a roster of warriors so capable, so dominant, so fierce and relentless in their pursuit to protect their world.

Pellinore, who was already famous in his own right, would go on and become more famous by taking up a post on a popular thoroughfare. He’d challenged kings and knights to duels and win every single one of them. Of course, there were some casualties along the way. He ended up making more enemies who were loyal to the fallen, adapting the moniker of “Fisher King”. The name “Pellinore” became synonymous with “manslaughter”. He was terrible, really.

The fortifications of Tintagel Castle were rebuilt and reinforced. King Mark became cold and hardened in Tristan’s absence. Some say the legendary Tristan went and joined an order of priests. Some say he became a mercenary for Saracens in the holy land. One thing was certain. Tristan would return. Everyone knew it. They wouldn’t say it, but they knew.

Gawain’s reputation for leadership, valor, and prowess on the battlefield spread far and wide. Despite his youth, he succeeded the role of prince and became one of King Mark’s most trusted generals. With Gaheris and Agravain by his side, Gawain never lost a battle or failed in his mission. However, with that success came the loss of something else. His compassion.

By the time he turned twenty-one, Gawain was ruthless in his lack of hesitation. There was no mercy on the battlefield. Wherever his brothers went, Gawain would throw himself in the midst of combat. He’d lose himself in it. After four years of nothing but intense combat, Gawain began to thirst it to the point where all he thought about was destroying his enemies. He’d fantasize about it. He couldn’t wait.

Morgana would blossom into a mesmerizing beauty that surpassed even her sisters. By twenty-one, she was taller. Her confidence was supreme and unshakeable. Men of all walks bowed down and shrank under her dark penetrating gaze.

She continued her tutelage with Niviane at Lake Avalon. Her potential seemed endless. Avalon was home to the world’s most gifted magicians and everyone knew Morgan would be the most powerful of them all. She could do everything her instructors could do and she performed them with better knowledge and understanding. Her spells lasted longer and her fire burned hotter than steel furnaces.

Her unbridled arrogance and ambition was matched only by her affection for Gawain. Anyone she saw as a threat needed to die. Queen Iseult sent wave after wave of mercenaries to murder Gawain. Morgan crucified them all. Anyone she suspected of aiding the enemy was tortured and chained without question. Gawain was thought to be the only person who could control her violence. It was only in Gawain’s company that Morgan exercised some degree of restraint.

Their love…it was powerful. The fear of losing each other drove them mad. It was a hypnotic spell by which they were locked on each other for what seemed would be forever.

For four long tumultuous years, this was the way of life. The days were dark. Death was beyond every hill, every forest, every field, and every bastion. Farmers were afraid to till the fields. Merchants became marauders. Protectors became plunderers. Treaties couldn’t be trusted. Warlords were always encroaching, and the mass of migrants seeking sanctuary in Tintagel only put more of a strain on King Mark.

Just when all hope seemed lost, just when there seemed to be no end to all the bloodshed and despair, a ray of light began to spread throughout the land. A young man, pure of heart, pulled a prophetic sword from its stone. Rumor has it, Merlin is with him. They say the young man is the rightful heir of to Pendragon’s throne, the only one who could possibly unite the clans and bring peace and stability to all Britannia. They say his name is Arthur.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 29 – Remember Me (Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on March 7, 2019
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When all is said and done, Morgan le Fay has to pay for what she’s done. In just a few days’ time, there’s been a massacre, tragedy, and all-out war…all due to the treachery of a seventeen-year-old enchantress. Britannia will never be the same. Thousands will die in the battles to come and Gawain is determined to avenge them.

Chapter 29 - Remember Me

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 29 – Remember Me
By Rock Kitaro

Nothing that once was could ever be the same. She knew that now. She knew there was no turning back, but at the same time, how could she move forward? Hopeless, exhausted, and alone, Morgan retreated to the one place that’s never turned its back on her. Chadwyck Forest.

The flourishing trees and all of its vivid colors was devoid of the blood, fire, and steel that so recently filled her sights. Here, she found solace with the woodland creatures, the rich smell of vegetation, and the trickle of crystal clear creeks.

She heard birds singing from the branches above. A cool breeze rustled the leaves and soothed the stinging gash along her right thigh. Morgan’s long black hair was grainy with the residue of sand and dried seawater. She had a blank stare, as if she was out of ideas and her body was now moving of its own volition.

Her black top, black pants, and hip-resting skirt were shredded and singed. She trudged into a shallow pond, an oasis in the middle of the forest where beautiful green willows bordered the banks. Once the frigid waters reached her waist, Morgan sunk her weight and let her ankles slide forward to submerge her body.

There she lay, baptized in suspended motion. The grime that encrusted her body gradually deteriorated. Her long black hair fanned out. As if the pond felt pity, it caressed her, consoled her, cleansed her, and kept her company. Thirty seconds felt like thirty minutes. When she finally opened her eyes, the clouds appeared so close. It was easy to imagine flying, gradually floating up towards the heavens.

Morgan planted her heels to stand and emerged from the pond as streams of water trickled down her smooth porcelain skin. The pain in her thigh subsided, as did the heat from physical exertion. Her heart still palpitated. And her eyes still burned from the sweat and tears but she didn’t scratch or wipe. The scene was too beautiful.

She took her time, trudging out of the pond as her hips pushed ripples with each step. Her glossy purple eyes rose up and peered through the canopy of leafy branches and the golden light that shimmered through. She found a spot by a massive oak with giant roots and a bed of soft grass.

There, she cowered down and lounged with her back against the roots. Then, tearing from the bottom of her shirt, she ripped a strip of fabric and fastened it as a bandage around her leg. She didn’t know if it would be enough to stave off infection or not. At the moment, she didn’t care.

All she could think of was the danger. The death. The look in that corpse’s eyes as she was crawling on her elbows in the midst of a full fledge battle. What happened at Tintagel was beyond her wildest imagination. Nothing went as expected. She never calculated Isolde to take matters in her hands. And she certainly didn’t think Gaheris would take it upon himself to kill Isolde.

A single tear trickled down her cheek. Her chest fluctuated as anxiety and mind-numbing fear mounted. She wasn’t naïve. She knew she deserved to be punished. She accepted it. The sooner the better…Just not from the man who was coming.

Imprisonment. Lashes. Disownment. Death. Those things, she didn’t fear. Let her die by Tristan’s hand. Let King Mark sign her death warrant. Let Gaheris put an arrow her heart. That’s fine. She could take it. Just not from Gawain!

“Oh god!”

She deflated with an emotional whimper as her face convulsed in a disgusted grimace. She buried into in her hands and cried. Oh, how she wept. Like a toddler who had all of her favorite toys taken away from her, Morgan sobbed and gushed and languished in self-loathing agony.

Then, she gasped with abject horror. The fast footsteps of a sprinter were approaching. Just as she looked over to her right, someone came bursting through the bushes with a skidding halt.

Gawain turned around and cast his sights on her. Beads of sweat covered his face. The fury in his eagle eyes blazed hot with indignation. He didn’t blink. His dark tunic was tattered and torn. His britches were soaking wet and with each step he could sense the unpleasant feeling of mud sinking beneath his boots.

Morgan said nothing but pouted in a silent plea of mercy. Meanwhile, Gawain’s eyes conveyed the sermon of a fiery priest, blaming her for the induction of sin itself. She curled against the tree roots with her legs tucked in close. Her eyes dropped from his face to his right hand. Gawain was clutching his katana, the razor sharp blade still filthy with the blood of so many. Morgan stared at the sword, fixated on it as a child to a father’s rod. She was triggered to vomit but pushed the lump back down her throat. After sitting there for some time, she finally propped up and sat on her knees with a studious arch in her back.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

Gawain squinted. It brought him no pleasure to see Morgan so afraid but he demanded justice.

“Just give me a reason…”

“Because I love you!” Morgan whimpered.

“YOU CALL THIS LOVE!?” Gawain screamed with tears of his own.

“Damn it, Morgana! We’re not children anymore! These are peoples’ lives you’re toying with! Look at what you’ve done! I could’ve died! My brothers could’ve been killer. For the love of God! I almost lost you! You… I almost. I almost lost …Why? Why can’t I…DAMN IT!”

Gawain flung his sword into the pond and began swinging his fists as if he was literarily battling his own demons. Morgan kept her head bowed and winced with each forceful swing Gawain threw. Finally, Gawain dropped to his knees and let out a deafening roar that sent ripples across the pond.

A gust of wind howled through the trees.

“Just tell me this,” Gawain said. “Is it true? Did you poison Tristan’s mind to make him fall in love with Isolde? The truth!”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 28 – Gawain vs. Algayre

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 28, 2019
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Gawain knows that Morgan will never be safe as long as Algayre’s alive.

Chapter 28 - Gawain vs Algayre

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 28 – Gawain vs. Algayre
By Rock Kitaro

Two riders carved a trail as they raced across the rolling moors of dying grass. Morgan was riding for her life, dipping and diving, zigzagging in an erratic fashion as she continued west for the shoreline.

Algayre was an avid horseman. The way his steed cleared fallen logs and skipped across shallow streams without so much as a pause was enough to inject fear in any prey. Twice now, he came within arm’s reach of her, lunging out to grab her hair before she dipped into the slope of the fluctuating moors. Algayre was getting agitated but he kept smiling. He knew her death was inevitable. There was only so much ground they could cover.

At last, they entered the Y-shaped valley between steep coastal cliffs to arrive at the sandy beach of Trebarwith Strand. As soon as Vebby’s hooves reached the first wave of the foam-crusted sea, Morgan hurled herself into the shallow water. It was just in time to dodge the decapitating sweep of Algayre’s rapier.

Even though he missed, Algayre was amused. There was nowhere else to go. His prey was trapped. The sea was freezing and the towering cliffs served as barriers. While Morgan struggled to wipe the sand and saltwater from her eyes, Algayre took his time to dismount and clean his long slender blade. Grinning from ear-to-ear, Algayre let the tide roll over his boots as the saliva began to build underneath his tongue.

Then, much to his surprise, Morgan stopped retreating. She turned around and faced him, kneeling in the saltwater that rose up to her hips. Algayre was ready to skin her alive but he noticed her dark purple eyes had turned milky white.

Morgan thrust up her open palms. Five streams of jade colored sea erupted from the waves and materialized into hardened knights with swords and shields. At once, they charged.

The knights fought valiantly but Algayre countered with his own magic. He replicated his image. The knights swung at illusions, carving through a mere image of Algayre before that image dispersed like a popped bag of sand. The real Algayre would sneak up from behind and slice through the knights with either his rapier or the dagger. The battle lasted less than thirty seconds.

When the last knight was no more, the milky look in her eyes faded. Just as Morgan regained her senses, Algayre dashed for her. Impulsively, she extended her ruby palm and blasted him with a surge of furnace hot fire. Algayre stopped, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. The scorching flames hit an invisible force field that caused the fire to flow around him like a river coursing around a cemented boulder.

Steam from the scorched ocean rose until they were engulfed in a cloud of vapors. The fire flowed in a continuous stream. Morgan was giving it everything she had. She was already fatigued but now it was getting difficult to breath. A migraine throbbed so bad that it muddled her vision. She could barely see the blinding light emanating from her own hand. What she did see was Algayre smiling through his crossed arms. She screamed with rage and dug deep to pull out any hidden reserve still left in the tank, but alas…

The fire stopped. Morgan dropped to her hands with a hard splatter. Fumes rose from her singed hair and fabrics as she gasped for air.

“No words? Pity. I was hoping you’d chide me further. The arousal of gutting the bold in the midst of their foolhardy edicts is unlike any other,” Algayre taunted.

Morgan was drained. She lacked the wherewithal to hit him with some snarky comeback. As if she just finished a marathon, her lungs were compressed, her mouth gaped open, and thick strands of saliva dripped from her lips. The front of her head felt like it was about burst from the pressure.

It was in that moment that she heard the sounds of galloping in the distance. It was faint. Could’ve just been the headache. But in the midst of her shock and exhausted stupor, Morgan peered through her bangs to look up the beach and there he was, Gawain coming to her rescue. She wanted to smile but she couldn’t. Too tired. So deflated.

“Oh ho ho…This is sweet. Such pleasure. Such ecstasy. I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my life.” Algayre said with the utmost satisfaction.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 27 – Knights with No Lords (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 23, 2019
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Gawain (17), Gaheris (15), Agravain (14) are the brothers. Joined by the mercenary Pellinore (23), the squire Constantine (16), the lancer Kersey and several others…these young lads make up the future legends who will one day play a role in uniting all of Britannia. For now, they’ll settle for conquering the destroyer of Hibernia.

Chapter 27 - Knights

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 27 – Knight With No Lords
By Rock Kitaro

Cups crashed and plates shattered as Morgan fled down the dark corridors like a runaway slave. She dragged down ornamental armor and tipped over chairs all in an attempt to create obstacles but the laugh persisted as if it was always just creeping over her shoulders.

Every time she stopped to throw a fireball down the hallway, it would hit absolutely nothing, lighting up the corridor until it reached a dead end. And just as the scarlet flames fizzled out, she’d see him. The ghostly image of Algayre, with his black hollow eyes, grinning from ear to ear with that creepy smile that flashed all fifty-two of his crooked teeth.

For a moment, he’d just stand there, taunting, toying with her. Then, he’d glide forward with startling speed, standing vertical without any gait as if he was levitating just an inch off the ground with his heels glued together, closing the distance so quickly. Twice now, she was only barely able to dodge the glint of his impaling blade, the glimmer of steel just inches from her face.

Morgan jumped from a window, fully aware of the adjoining rooftop just six feet below. She landed and scraped her knee on something awful. Almost immediately, she picked herself up and continued running along the narrow wind-scraped rooftop, focusing to ignore the perils of plummeting 200 feet into the alleys below.

A sharp pain seared across her right thigh. Algayre had just fired a crossbow, slicing through flesh. The pain was too much. The arrow hit her in midstride so she fell.

Propelled by the forward momentum, Morgan spilled into the nearest open-air terrace and crashed through a wooden table. Her hair was frazzled. Bruises galore. She sat up and gawked at the excruciating gash throbbing from her leg. It hurt to move but she had no choice. The laughter drew near. Thus, she forged on, biting her lip with angry determination.

Morgan entered the 3rd floor of the citadel and spotted two Lothian knights at the end of the corridor. Both had blood on their shields. They seemed strong and eager for more action. Morgan shouted that a villain was after her. And just as she pointed towards the door, there was a flash of gray light. Someone had entered and closed the door.

“Fear not, milady! We’ll handle this!” the knights declared.

One of them charged headlong into darkness and soon screeched out in pain. There was a hard stabbing sound followed by the thud of a body dropped. The second knight ran to avenge his comrade.

Morgan watched in horror as Algayre grabbed the knight’s neck and sliced him six different ways all while smiling at the seventeen-year-old enchantress. He threw a dagger her way and it was out of sheer luck that she managed to evade it by staggering against a pedestal. Blood from the dagger dripped to her cheeks. Morgan snarled with rage.

“YA!” she shouted with the hurled a fireball.

The grinning Algayre held out his open palm. The fire vanished inches from contact. Morgan threw another and another but it had no affect. Algayre’s own magic intercepted the flames. Each time Morgan summoned her magic, it exhausted her, bringing her closer to fatigue and dehydration. It got to the point where she felt light-headed and saw double vision. Algayre laughed.

“All witches must die!” he hissed.

Again he came at her, levitating off the ground.

“AYE!” Morgan yelped as she dashed into the connecting corridor.

Hobbling as fast as she could with blood, sweat, and tears draining from her face, Morgan raced for the nearest open window. Algayre was right behind her, so close that he could reach out and wrap his entire arm around her neck.

“AHHH!!!” Morgan screamed as she threw herself out another window.

This window was unfamiliar. She didn’t know if she’d splatter on a roof, a body of water, or the streets below. Anything was better than death by Algayre. She flailed through the air for what seemed like an eternity until finally her back hit a cushioned surface. Her lungs bounced as if she just was body-slammed and it took a few seconds to regain her bearings.

By some miracle, Morgan had plummeted eighty feet and landed in a wagon full of sheep’s wool. As she gulped and struggled to breathe, her weary eyes gazed up to the third floor window she jumped from. Algayre leaned out of the window with that haunting smirk and it pissed her off to no end.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 25 – The Greatest Escape (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 31, 2019
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Tristan arrives for his execution. The courtyard at St. Gabriel’s Abby is packed with mourners all here to say their goodbyes to Cornwall’s favorite son. And perhaps no one is more of a wreck than Princess Isolde. Screaming like a woman being skinned alive, all she wants is to touch him one last time.

Chapter 25 - The Greatest Escape

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 25 – The Greatest Escape
By Rock Kitaro

The bells from St. Gabriel’s Abbey could be heard for miles. Shrouded in her dark cloak, Morgan le Fay stood alone on the second floor cloister overlooking the courtyard of Angel’s Square. No one forced her to be there. She couldn’t even recall how she got there. Yet, there she was, devoid of any triumph or emotion. Just staring out with an empty gaze. Her sapphire eyes settled on nothing and everything at the same time.

Over 2,000 men and women filled Angel’s Square. A cold wind blew from the north, rustling leaves and making it difficult for one not to squint. Children were prohibited. Armed guards were stationed at every exit with archers posted on high. Everyone wore dark garbs or black mourning gowns. It was a tragic scene with so many weeping and sobbing before the ritual began. It was contagious and spread quickly. Even the most hardened men fought back tears with stern frowns and clenched jaws.

Off to the side were the stands designated for special guests. King Lot, Queen Morgaus, Gawain, Gaheris, Agravain, and Debra were seated in the front row. Sir Ioness’s daughters, Dawn and Fawn were behind them.

The royal platform was behind the crowd on the far end of Angel’s Square opposite to the scaffold. It was a dais elevated five feet up and protected by a perimeter of iron clad soldiers. Seated from left to right were Algayre, Princess Isolde, Queen Iseult, King Mark, the Duchess Igraine, and the Lady Elaine. The chair next to Elaine was vacant. It was reserved for Morgan, a void Gawain couldn’t help but notice.

Morholt the Destroyer was waiting outside the walls of Angel’s Square, in front of the church massive main entrance. A thick velvety cloak covered his grotesque bulging muscles. Four of his deadliest cutthroats stood by his side as a horse-driven carriage entered the yard. Tristan had arrived.

The guards had cleaned him up. His blond stringy hair was washed and he was now wearing a familiar attire of tan britches, brown boots, and the light blue shirt he was always so fond of. He was no longer wrapped in chains, just a sturdy length of rope binding his hands behind his back.

As Tristan stepped down from the carriage, a chuckle that sounded like grinding walnuts emanated from Morholt’s throat. Tristan knew he was there but couldn’t bring himself to look at the man who killed his parents. He simply submitted himself to the dungeon master and was escorted through a path of red berry hedges leading to the stage of his demise.

The crowd erupted with grief and groans to see their hero so pale and despondent. Isolde nearly slid out of her chair, whimpering like a tortured hound as a suffocating lump formed in her throat. It was torture. Her legs grew numb with a sweltering heat tingling around her knees rushing down her calves.

Queen Iseult clawed at her daughter’s sleeve to keep her seated. The princess whispered and begged to leave but Iseult forced her to stay. The queen’s patience had dried up. She grew weary of Tintagel and each passing second only ate at her thin veil of civility like a corrosive acid. The sooner Tristan was dead, the better.

Morgan’s guilt was creeping in. She didn’t think it would, but watching the outpour of sheer misery, she couldn’t believe it. The huddled mass swayed to and fro with outstretched hands like a tumultuous tide inching closer to reach out and touch their favorite son. The keening became so loud that it drowned out the bells. Their faces. The tears. The agony, as if Tristan was truly loved on a personal level by each and every soul in the courtyard, it was too much. Morgan finally closed her eyes and the flood of tears broke free to roll down her cheeks.

“So this is what it feels like to be Judas. So wretched,” Morgan sniveled as her hands gripped at her face.

Isolde was the worst. She screamed like a woman being skinned alive.

“AHHHHHH!!!!” she screamed.

Her high-pitched shrill screeched through the courtyard. Gawain’s eyes shot open at the sight. Algayre tried to hold on to her shoulders but Isolde convulsed and dropped to her knees on the dais. Gawain and his brothers exchanged awkward glances. She just kept screaming, over and over again, but the queen would not be moved.

Gawain hardened his heart. His brothers did the same. All three wore the masks of soldiers, determined to conceal their sorrow. They ignored the incessant screams and pleas for mercy to focus on the event at hand. Tristan was nearing the steps of the scaffold.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 24 – A Single Ounce of It (Romance Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 24, 2019
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Hours before Tristan is slated for execution, he imparts some big brotherly wisdom upon the downtrodden Gawain. Prince Gawain knows Morgan is responsible for the death and destruction that’s plagued Tintagel Castle, but still…he’s in love with her. It doesn’t make any sense.

Chapter 24 - A Single Ounce of It

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 24 – A Single Ounce of It
By Rock Kitaro

Gawain peered around the corner. The gigantic dungeon master was watching Tristan only for a moment. Then he turned and walked on, exiting from a large wooden door and closing it behind him.

Finally, Gawain approached. One hand was resting on the hilt of his katana. The other was raised, letting his fingers graze the cold wet bars as he walked to stand front and center.

Tristan’s blond hair was wet, stringy, and stinking. The wool blanket was wrapped around his torso and tucked between the wall and his shoulders. His legs were sprawled out from the wooden bench he sat on and his steel blue eyes…those blue eyes from whence such ferocity, such authority once exuded, it was as if his soul had already passed on.

Then, without blinking, his sights elevated to settle on his visitor. Gawain smiled. Then he pouted, overwhelmed with hopelessness as his forehead and sweaty bangs pressed against the bars.

“Christ, not you too,” Tristan groaned.

With a shaky voice, Gawain said, “You’re the closest thing I ever had to a big brother. I suppose that’s a stupid thing to say, considering I’m the one who got you into this mess.”

“Gawain, stop. It’s annoying to see you so hard on yourself. I need you to be strong. Now that I’m gone, you’ll need to defend Tintagel. Lothian can wait. King Lot’s not going anywhere. I need you to promise to protect Dumnonia from her enemies.”

Gawain nodded, closing his eyes as the tears began to trail down his cheeks.

“Gawain. You have to know. You’re so much stronger than me in so many ways.”

“Don’t,” Gawain whimpered. “Everyone talks about how strong and honorable I am. They have no idea. If I was so strong, so virtuous, why does it hurt so much? Why is it so difficult to simply be alive and bear it?”

“You rather it’d be you on the chopping block?” Tristan asked.

Gawain chuckled before biting down on his lower lip with a defeated sulk.

“Gawain…Just love her. Take her and embrace her with all your heart. If she means so much to you, your brothers will understand. Morgaus, Elaine, the duchess, they will all understand. Who cares what everyone else thinks? Your character shines through. Truly, it does. Besides. What warlord’s gonna be crazy enough to wag his tongue at you with that mad dog Agravain chomping at the bit,” Tristan said, drawing another chuckle from the disheartened Gawain.

“Tristan, during your hearing you couldn’t answer any of the queen’s questions about the princess. You claim to be in love with her but you don’t know anything about her. She likes bumblebees. They’re fuzzy. For hours almost every day last summer, she tried to collect them like marbles. She made me help. I must have gotten stung like twenty times. It was extremely irritating.”

“Bumblebees, huh. I had no idea,” Tristan snickered.

“That’s my point. How can you be in love with someone you barely know, and more importantly, all the sudden? Tristan, I’m trying my best to come up with some other explanation but the obvious truth is staring me right in the face. I can’t ignore it.”

“You think Morgan cast a spell on me,” Tristan nodded.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Tristan leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the blotchy gray ceiling. A soft chuckle expelled from his nose before he said something that left Gawain speechless.

“So what if she did?”

“What?” Gawain whispered.

“Say, Morgan did cast some magical aphrodisiac on me. If she did, I confess, I probably need to thank her,” Tristan smiled.

“Tristan, no! You’re about to die and you’d thank her for it? You’ve gone mad. That’s the magic talking.”

“It isn’t,” Tristan said. “Listen to me. All my life I’ve heard the choirboys, the squires and knights talk about love and romance, that beautiful someone. I’ve seen ladies from hundreds of castles and I’ve never felt anything for any of them. When I see people, I see them as animals in which I’ve always felt like an entirely different species. They all have the same features. Everyone has a head, a pair of eyes, hair, nose, and lips. I never saw any of that and said to myself, this is attractive. Until a few days ago.

“Gawain, these past seven days have been the best days of my life. Contrary to how it seems, I’ve never been happier. Even when I pulled you from the black sea, fully aware you’ve come acting as marshal. I came back to Tintagel accepting my fate. It was worth it. It was worth it just to feel, just to feel an ounce of it. That thing they call true love. If giving my life means she can go on…it’s worth it. I know you don’t understand now. To be honest, I hope you never have to find out.”

Gawain gripped at the cell bars with that emphatic rage he tried so hard to suppress. Grinding his teeth, Gawain uttered, “How am I supposed to love a woman who starts wars, creates monsters, and sets about the destruction of so many innocent people?”

“Gawain, I know that sounds horrible? Truly. But do everyone a favor and shut up about it.”

Gawain shook his head in confusion.

“Now that I know what love is, I know what jealousy is. You might be the only man on earth who has a woman who’s willing and capable of starting wars, creating monsters, and devising destruction if it means keeping you all to herself. You’re like the male version of Helen. And Morgan is both the Greek and the Trojans. It’s kind of amazing, actually.”

“I can’t condone that!” Gawain barked.

“Yes you can, you idiot. Because you love her. You say can’t condone it now, but if ever you’re put in the position where you have a split second to choose between her or your own brothers, I guarantee you’ll choose her.”

“Then I guess you are right. I am stronger than you,” Gawain said with a fierce gaze.

“Don’t be salty. I meant no offense. Besides. Just because you’d choose her, doesn’t mean you’d actually defeat your brothers,” Tristan mused.

Spit flew from Gawain’s lips as he laughed helplessly. “You really think my brothers will be the death of me, don’t you.”

“Between them and Morgan, God knows,” Tristan smirked. “You could always join me on the chop block.”

The two laughed even more when Gawain imitated banging his head against the bars. The boys chuckled in their mild amusement before silence entered and made itself at home. Gawain would stay with his sullen head pressed against the bars for a full hour. Then the Dungeon Master entered.

It was time.

The Knights with No Lords – Chapter 23 – Despair (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 17, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan is put on trial for murder and treason. Gawain and the young lads prepare for an ambush that’s sure to happen. And Morgan finally confronts Isolde, woman to woman, about what happened one steamy night when Isolde was alone with Gawain.

Chapter 23 - Despair - wlopartwork by WLOP for his “Ghostblade” series

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 23 – Despair
By Rock Kitaro

High up in one of the sky piercing towers, a woman in black attire came marching with purpose around the torch-lit corridors. Morgan came to pay a late night visit to the Princess Isolde. She approached the four soldiers guarding the bedroom door. Algayre was with them. His black eyes widened with excitement and rage.

“Oh, you have some nerve showing your face here! Witch!” Algayre seethed.

“And you have some nerve calling me a witch. I take it your mother was one. It’s the only explanation for those cheap parlor tricks you call magic. Not to mention having a face only a mother could love. Except she didn’t, did she. They’d never accept a wretch like you in Avalon and I suspect they don’t have schools of sorcery in Hibernia. Shssh! Listen. Hear that? It’s the sound of a hundred innocent women burning at the stake. They’re screaming for vengeance. They beseech me. I hear them. And rest assured, one day I will grant them their request.”

Algayre stood stupefied. Never before in his life had he ever been so deeply insulted, and worst! Morgan was correct in assuming his mother was a witch. But was it an assumption? Or did she peer into his past? Before Algayre could regain his senses, Morgan was no longer standing in front of him.

Somehow, she slipped by the four guards and easily opened the door to the room. It wasn’t until the light from the room came pouring out into the hallway that the guards realized their perimeter had been compromised. They crossed their spears to block Morgan’s path but it was too late. Morgan was locking eyes with a resentful Isolde.

“Let her through,” Isolde commanded.

“Buy milady. Your mother gave us explicit orders…”

“For the love of God! She’s just a child!” Isolde snapped.

Isolde was alone in the bedroom with nothing but old books to keep her company. She wasn’t in chains or tethered to the wall. To escape through the window meant jumping from a sixty-foot tower to the nearest roof. It was brightly lit with the wicks of every candle burning from a hanging chandelier. Morgan entered with her hands clasped behind her back. Algayre followed, his cheeks quivering with rage.

“I’m sorry but I’m going to have to insist that you keep your dog outside,” Morgan said as her purple eyes traced the cherubim tapestry adorning the wall.

Algayre drew his rapier with a metallic chime. Morgan’s back was turned to him. It would’ve been so easy to give a flick of his wrists and sever the spine at the base of her neck but Isolde came between them.

“Algayre please. She’s harmless,” she beckoned.

“I don’t care if she’s a fucking fly on the wall. My blade hungers for her blood!”

“And it may very drink, but not now. Outside. If you please,” Isolde urged with a stern gaze.

Morgan kept her back to the pair as she approached a counter that displayed a variety of the queen’s emeralds. Their texture was exquisite. She wanted to rub her fingers across their facets but she resisted. It wasn’t until she heard the door close that she turned around and faced her nemesis.

Morgan and Isolde wore the same defiant look of mutual disdain. Both loved men who valued useless things such as loyalty and honor above their own selfish desires. In fact, the acknowledgment that they had so much in common only made them hate each other even more. “In this world, there can only be one,” was the sentiment deep in their depths of their despair.

“Why are you here?” Isolde scoffed.

“Because I want to know what exactly Gawain saw in a scrawny thing like you.”

“Gawain! UGH! If I never hear that name again, I swear! After everything I’ve done for him. I trusted him! I confided in him. He knew. He knew! Tristan was all I ever wanted and he robbed me of my prize. I told him things that I never told anyone!”

“Such as?”

“None of your business, wench! Why don’t you go ask him?” Isolde snapped.

Morgan’s fingers coiled into a fist as her chin tucked down on that seething heat rising from her chest. “Did you have your way with him?”

“WHAT?!” Isolde shrieked with absurdity.

“I’m asking you, did you ever lay with Gawain? In the stables. Years ago at Oherth Castle.”

Isolde erupted in a fit of laughter before staring at Morgan as if she had just spilled a tray of pastries all over the front of her black dress. Isolde poured herself a drink of water. She took a sip from her tin goblet before returning to Morgan with a look of absurdity.

“Gawain is the most boring dolt I’ve ever met. He behaves as if the Holy Spirit is always just hovering over his shoulders, watching his every move. As if lightning would strike him at first sin. I’ve disrobed before him many times and not once has he ever allowed himself to feast his eyes on this. He’s a eunuch for all I know. Good luck trying to bed him. You’ll be a bleeding skeleton before he’s good and ready.”

As Isolde’s bold rant filled the room, Morgan crawled back into her shell. Morgan’s teeth began to rattle and with bated breath. Then a cringe flashed over her face, a cringe of anger and resentment as she recalled the vision of Gawain and Isolde. Her heart started to tremble and before she knew it, Morgan was biting her thumb.

“Oh my gosh. You don’t know, do you?” Isolde smirked. “You think there’s something going on between Gawain and I. You ask what Gawain could possibly see in me. Ha! I stand wondering what he could possibly see in a plump little gnome like you. Hahaha! What kind of girl distrusts the most honest man on earth?”

“Careful…” Morgan warned.

“Or what? Hmm?” Isolde dared as she stood over the shorter Morgan. “You’ll glower me to death? I should call you Medusa.”

“You should call me Morgan Le Fay,” Morgan grinned. “I thank you for your honesty. Here’s some back. You’re a fool if you ever believed Tristan loved you of his own volition. If it weren’t for a blend of truffle and Xice, he’d barely know you exist. And rest assured, after his head is mounted on a spike, no one else will know you exist either. They’ll write songs about the nameless woman trapped forever in the tower, whose beauty faded under a layer of dust and mold, only to be seen by the moths and rats, watching her grow old and old.”

Tears began to well in Isolde’s eyes, “My Mother…”

“Your mother will live out what’s left of her days in Oherth Castle. Morholt and that skeleton of a man Algayre will soon fall in battle. I know they think Tristan is our only lord and savior but my boys are more than enough for your lot. And even should they fall, I won’t. The fury in my heart screams, begging to be unleashed. I am wrath incarnate. And you are but dragon ash, destined to fade and wither in the wind.”

Isolde was shaking. She let the goblet slip from her fingertips before swinging for Morgan’s left cheek. Morgan ducked and punched Isolde in the stomach. A groaning Isolde staggered back and collapsed against the dresser.

Algayre came barging into the room. He drew his sword and charged at the smirking Morgan. Ever so calmly, Morgan covered herself with the hood of her black cloak. Algayre’s rapier plunged into Morgan’s chest, but Morgan was no longer there. All Algayre got was a vacant black cloak that he slung off of his sword.

He scanned the room. He knew she was still there.

“You started out so courageous!” Algayre shouted. “Where is your courage now? Come out and face me, witch! I know this is all your doing!”

“That’s right! You’ve all made the most entertaining pawns. I’ve enjoyed you immensely!” Morgan said, her voice emanating as if it came from all corners of the room.

“It’s only a matter of time before I catch you! Go ask Gawain! Ask him what I do to the—”

“—Toys that he tries to keep to himself?” Morgan finished. “Do be more original. And sadly you’re mistaken if you think I’m anyone’s plaything.”

“COME OUT!” Algayre shouted.

“I am out.”

Algayre’s eyes darted to the door. Morgan was standing in the hallway just behind the unsuspecting guards, dressed in her black gown with a smug grin.

“AAAAAAH!!!” Algayre bellowed as he charged for the door.

Just as he dashed forward in that mastered lunge he was known for, the door slammed shut. His sword drove through the wood and ended up stabbing one of his own guards. As Morgan started off down the winding corridor from whence she came, she could hear Algayre struggling to remove his sword.

Morgan’s smirk belied the heartfelt regret that she’d never allow anyone to see. With a stern gaze, Morgan’s mind blazed with stern conviction. “What’s done is done. They only have themselves to blame.”

The Knights With No Lords: Chapter 20 – Break Out (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

In the dead of the night, a resounding bell wakes the castle. A massacre has taken place. Blood and bodies are strewn about. And when everyone finds out that the killer is one of their own…all bets are off. Peace talks go out the window and everyone’s calling for war.

Chapter 20 - Break Out

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 20 – Break Out
By Rock Kitaro

Gawain didn’t leave the banquet to go lay down as he said he would. Instead, he trudged out of the palace and got lost in the nightlife of Tintagel’s nefarious underground. With gloomy thoughts and a defeated drag, Gawain would eventually find himself drawn to the boisterous laughter of a man too full of himself to let anxiety ever enter his cognitive.

The “Slewellen Chest” was one of the most popular rough and tumble taverns in all of Tintagel. All of the sell swords, thieves, and drunkards frequented this massive two-story pub. Cigar smoke and discombobulated revelry filled the air and spilled out into the streets. Arm-wrestling and card games took up the center tables while discreet plots and conspiracy theories permeated along the timber walls.

The tavern was packed on both tiers, a rabble of activity. Playful wenches in tight bust-pressing bodices made themselves familiar. Somehow, they managed to balance trays of foamed topped brews, roasted fish, and salted pretzels while spinning on their heels, swaying their hips and dancing to the jaunty tunes.

A few sailors tried reaching up their skirts but they were quickly made examples of. The retired Sir Brackish yanked them up by their necks and sent them flying out the nearest windows. That being said, the Slewellen Chest had a storeroom full of spare windows. Every time glass shattered, everyone raised their mugs and gave a unified cheer before guzzling down the rest of its contents. It was a fun tradition.

Sir Brackish owned the bar and ran it alongside his remarkable wife, Slewellen. Short and stout with possibly the largest breasts in all of Britannia, Slewellen was indeed remarkable. All seven of her daughters were blessed with similar assets and Sir Brackish wasn’t shy about using them to draw wayward travelers to his establishment. Two ladies were stationed outside, dancing under the protection of four bearded swordsmen. The other five happily helped their mother tend to the guests and staff. Their charm, the way they interacted with visitors as if all were part of the family. Thus, Sir Brackish was one of the most famous men in all of Tintagel. If something were to happen to him or his daughters, an army of criminals would rise from the shadows and rally to his side.

The antler decorations were spectacular. Spirited fiddle and flute musicians played on a stage near the grand fireplace as the baker’s wife sang her song about sailors and pirates. Flickering candles and burning torches made the tavern a star that could be seen from the highest towers.

With a ceiling reaching up to forty feet, all of the walls were adorned by an eclectic array of swords, spears, and shields from around the world. The centerpiece was on the largest wall just above the fireplace. It was seven-foot replica of Duke Gorlois’s shield, bearing his image imposed over the black Cornish flag of gold coins. Surrounding it was the mounted heads all sorts of wild beasts, but regardless of the excess, all eyes were drawn to the shield the moment they entered the tavern.

Seventeen-year-old Gawain plodded into the tavern and was immediately greeted by dagger-like stares from the closest tables. The Lothian pin on his chest revealed he was royalty. That coupled with his youthful appearance and careless swag made the cutthroats ripe with animosity. Prince or not, the Slewellen Chest was no man’s land. Gawain was aware. Deep down, he was actually thirsting for a fight.

The grind of chairs being pushed put him on edge. Gawain turned to see a large potbellied mercenary approaching with three others, all ugly as sin. They looked strong. He could see the scars through their hairy forearms and they were already putrid with fatty sweat. Still…Gawain was thirsting for a fight.

“OYE! He’s with us,” shouted Barxy.

Everyone turned to the largest table closest to the fire. Pellinore and his five men, the Brood of Black Bloods had occupied this table. Kanish, Barxy, Jeremy, Dantry, and Balto, all decked in black armor with the aura of wolves ready to hunt. Pellinore was the only one smiling. He had one of Brackish’s daughters on his lap. She was a vibrant with orange hair, playing with Pellinore’s red scarf as she stared at the cool vertical scar over his left eye.

“He don’ belong ‘ere,” grumbled a Celtic warrior with a red beard.

“Anyone touches him…Do I even need to say?” Pellinore warned as he chuckled and leaned in to nibble on the lady’s neck.

The big scary men stepped aside and cleared a path. Gawain started to pass when suddenly he turned and smacked the taste out of red-bearded Celtic. The Celtic fell back and dragged with him the contents of a table full of drinks. Everyone laughed and applauded as the prince approached Pellinore’s table with the authority of a man well beyond his years.

“That idiot is the captain of the Hollow Fang. His boys will come looking to fix this,” Kanish warned.

“Good!” Gawain said as he plopped down in a chair.

“Hear, hear!” Jeremy shouted.

“HA! And here I thought this one was all pomp and piety,” Dantry slurred.

“Nah. He’s got plenty of Spartan in ‘em when certain toes are stepped on,” said Pellinore.

“Judging from that mug of his, I’m willing to bet there’s a lover’s quarrel, no doubt,” Kanish smirked.

Gawain didn’t answer. He just sat there with hooded eyes staring into the fire. Barxy, Jeremy, Balto and Dantry continued their card game while the inquisitive Kanish continued to make inquiries.

“Coming from the banquet?” he asked.

Gawain cringed and nodded. “Nothing makes a lick of sense anymore. You should have seen it. Everyone was getting along. It was as if peace was manufactured and the engineers held hidden blades to those with the blueprints. Morgan was the master of ceremonies. She gave some kind of motivational speech! I couldn’t believe it. I swear I thought I was hallucinating. And Tristan was…Pellinore, Tristan was giddy.”

“Giddy?” Pellinore doubted with a raised brow.

“I know! Sounds utterly insane. Doesn’t it?”

“Aye, it does. Maybelle! Come bring the lad some ale!” Pellinore shouted.

“No thanks. I don’t partake,” Gawain declined.

“Poppycock!” Barxy snapped.

“My prince, if you’re with us you’re gonna have to turn that frown upside down. Maybelle’s brown sugar ale should do the trick,” Jeremy assured him.

Gawain grumbled, “Oh, what the hell. On with it then.”

“ON WITH IT THEN!” Pellinore shouted.

“ON WITH IT!” the boys shouted, all pounding their mugs and fists on the table.

While Pellinore resumed burying his face in breasts, Kanish reflected on Gawain’s assessment. The prince drank and every time his cup was half full, Barxy would lean over and top it off. By the fourth refill, a miserable Gawain was slouching over, propping his elbows on the table and wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He peered through his curly bangs and noticed Kanish was still staring.

“I’m not crazy,” Gawain mumbled.

“Never said you were, my prince,” Kanish said with that laid back smirk of his.

“You think I’ll lose myself to the drink and become like the rest of this riffraff,” Gawain asked.

“You want to know what I think?” Kanish asked.

“For fuck’s sake, just tell the boy!” Pellinore yelled.

“Milord, the prince and I are talking. You’d do well to listen yourself. Seeing as you’d be in the same boat if I stole your lady from you,” said Kanish.

“Let me tell ya,” Pellinore slurred. “You try and steal this valkyrie from me, you better run and hide yourself well!”

“Yes, that’s my point. Young Gawain. You are the heir of Lothian and Orkney. You need only lift a finger and a host of swords would set upon your enemies. Yet, here you sit as if you’re rotting in chains in some backwater dungeon. It’s odd, no?” Kanish noted.

Pellinore nodded. Everyone at the table was paying attention. Gawain, however, kept drinking. That was until Pellinore reached over and palmed the top of his mug.

“Remove your hand, sir,” Gawain warned.

“Or what? You’ll strike me?” Pellinore grinned.

Gawain’s fierce gaze was locked on Pellinore like a snake poised to strike.

“Hit him, Gawain!” said Barxy.

“Knock that scar off of his face!” Jeremy hissed.

“Go head. Strangle him with that stupid red scarf,” Balto urged.

“HEY!” Pellinore shouted. “This scarf is not stupid. You jackals have no sense of taste! That’s what that is!”

Fear flashed over Pellinore’s face as Gawain suddenly jerked forward. Only, Gawain didn’t attack. He erupted with a stream of pink projectile vomit spraying all over Pellinore and his lady. The woman took off screaming before Pellinore grimaced and started vomiting himself. The Brood of the Black Bloods roared with laughter as Gawain toppled over and hit the floor chest first.

“OH!!!”

“UGH! YOU DISGUSTING BASTARD! I’mma kill you!” Pellinore shouted.

He managed to get two kicks in to Gawain’s ribcage before the boys pulled him back. Gawain’s sweaty cheek stuck him to the stone floor. His sight got blurry and then all went dark. All went silent.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 19 – Sweet Revenge (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 20, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

It’s time. After containing her rage and resentment for so long, Morgan puts her plot in motion to get revenge on Tristan and Isolde. Everything’s going according to plan. It’s brilliant. No one suspects a thing…Well, no one except for Gawain.

Chapter 19 - Sweet Revenge

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 19 – Sweet Revenge
By Rock Kitaro

Sir Anatola was a retired knight nearing the age of fifty-eight. For decades, he’d thrown himself in combat to defend Dumnonia’s borders from invaders. His courage and sense of duty was undeniable. Thus, when Anatola became a father at the age of fifty and tendered his resignation, the king honored him by giving him command of a strategic beacon near the relaxed seaside jurisdiction of Devonshire.

Sir Anatola was a devout husband, tending to the wheat fields with his son and daughter. Everyone in the village looked up to Anatola as the community leader. Whenever there was a domestic or civil dispute, the villagers of Torridge would sooner come to Anatola than seek out the sheriff. Whenever there was troublesome news pouring out of Tintagel, the villagers would seek out Anatola for his guidance and wise prognostications.

However…for the past two days, Anatola considered himself just as baffled as the huddled masses when they learned of King Mark’s betrothal to Princess Isolde. Anatola tapped into history lessons of how political marriages were used to stifle aggressions between conflicting nations. Yet when it came to the Hibernians, specifically Queen Iseult and the thousands of widows and orphans she’s created over the decades, Anatola found it hard to believe King Mark was so willing to forgive.

Anatola had lost all five of his brothers and his father to the forces under Morholt’s command. His nieces were captured and hauled into slavery, the same as Gawain, except the girls never returned. Sir Anatola had no idea if they were dead or alive. The grief and animosity was buried deep in his heart.

“Byron! Stay close,” Anatola called.

Seven-year-old Byron was helping his father and a handful of workers harvest the field. It was after noon and the winds were picking up, allowing for a hypnotic effect as the wheat swayed like ocean waves. The night rain had drenched the field. Every so often, Anatola had to stop and wipe his sickle of grime and residue. That being said, dark skies threatened to release another torrential downpour.

Just then, a streak of lightning stabbed the high trees of the neighboring forest. The sharp crackle and booming thunder frightened everyone. All eyes were on Anatola, hoping he’d call it a day. Anatola didn’t want to stop. A solider stays until the job is done.

“Father, look!” said Byron.

Out the corner of his eye, Anatola saw the glint of shiny steel. A single knight dressed in black and gold battle armor was riding across the hill. The horse was carrying a long sword, a shield, bow and arrows, and a lance. The rider held the reins with one hand while the other gripped the banner, the gold and black sigil of Tintagel.

“Rally to me!” Anatola called out.

At once, the workers took up their pitchforks and sickles and rallied around Anatola. Children were collected and brought indoors. Doors and windows were barred.

The knight galloped across the field before slowing down and lifting the visor of his helmet. It was Sir Tristan.

“Something’s wrong?” said Tristan.

“Forgive ‘em, milord. People are on edge following the news of what happened to Germatis’s boy.”

“What news is that?” Tristan asked.

Anatola scoffed with a hint of disappointment. “I see word still travels like molasses. Two nights past, Germantis’s son was chopped in half by a single blow. Happened south of the capital. Signs of a militia moving ashore not far from the squire’s body. Mean to tell me you didn’t hear any of this?”

Tristan used both hands to remove his helmet, letting his long locks flow and confusion show. He’s known Sir Anatola since he was a child. The old man even saved his life once and when Tristan was strong enough to best him in jousting, Tristan knew it was because age slowed Anatola down. Anatola wouldn’t go spreading rumors he didn’t believe. And the fact that the villagers reacted in such a reheased fashion suggested Anatola warned them that Tintagel had been compromised.

“This is truly disturbing, sir. I’ll make sure the king hears of it and see to full inquiries myself.”

“Tristan, my son,” Anatola said discreetly as he approached the horse. “Why are you armed for combat?”

Tristan’s cold eyes peered into Anatola’s. Thunder boomed causing the workers to flinch once more.

“It’s going to rain soon,” Tristan said in a grave tone. “You and your workers should take cover immediately. Seek shelter and don’t come out. No matter what you hear.”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 18 – Generations (Young Adult Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 15, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tintagel prepares for the wedding as Princess Isolde finally begins to wrap her mind around married life. Tristan and King Mark come to terms, putting an end to years of unspoken animosity. And Morgan enlists Agravain in her plan to ruin everything.

Chapter 18 - Generations WLOPartwork by WLOP for his creative series

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 18 – Generations
By Rock Kitaro

 

As the threat of light rain continued well into the morning, production for the upcoming wedding was well underway. The ceremony was to be held in the monastery, but decorations and arrangements for the reception also required coordination and construction. It was tradition for a tournament to follow the wedding and considering several of Queen Iseult’s knights signed up, Sir Cador knew he had to be careful with the match assignments.

Constantine was always by his father’s side. Sir Cador exerted supreme authority over the wedding plans and any error would be met by the backhand of his gauntlet. Constantine was truly in awe. The way everyone skirted around Sir Cador like a tiger on a chain, Constantine couldn’t help but admire his father.

In the Northern Ward, Tristan and Isolde strolled through the bustling district of tradesmen and vendors peddling their products. Almost everyone stopped and stared, utterly awestruck by their presence. It was as if the two were birthed from a romantic painting, a dream, a divine scene of a shining knight and a beautiful princess, both with shimmering blonde hair and heavenly faces that surpassed mere mortals.

One by one, skilled artisans and shop owners offered them food, wine, and crafts but the couple respectfully declined. Instead, Tristan spared a moment to help a carpenter hoist a beam up for a new roof. Isolde helped a farmer’s wife carry a basket of eggs from one cart to another. Once they finished their volunteerism, Tristan and Isolde rejoined and continued on their way to the palace.

Queen Iseult was waiting. On the great limestone steps of the main palace, the queen was accompanied by twelve choice men, all sharp and dashing. Sir Maven entertained her with a dazzling sword dance. He spun and twirled his blade so fast that it whistled with each spin. Everyone knew the techniques were useless in combat, but it was still spectacular to see.

The princess arrived, laughing and leaning into Tristan’s arm. The queen was not pleased. With a skeptic gaze, she watched as Iseult pranced up the steps and curtseyed.

“Good morrow, mother!”

“Good morrow, my dove.”

Tristan’s brooding heart had softened from before. At least now he could bring himself to look in the queen’s eyes without cringing.

“Bow before the queen!” Sir Maven shouted.

Tristan merely squinted and curled his lips into a half grin, half snarl.

“Insolent!” Maven slurred as he lunged forward with his sword.

Maven’s blade poked into Tristan’s chest but Tristan didn’t flinch. Isolde smirked, standing so close to her mother.

“Care to explain that blotch just above the derriere?” Iseult asked her.

Isolde pulled on her white dress to see the grass stain smudged by her hip.

“Oh! I fell,” Isolde answered, confident that it explained everything.

“Amazing.” The queen remarked. “This one hasn’t said a single word. Isolde’s father was the silent type. So laconic, plain, and dull. Like a cauldron of lukewarm water.”

“Oh! Trust me, once you get Tristan talking you’ll be hard pressed to find a moment of silence,” Isolde chuckled.

A page came running from the portico of the palace and kneeled before Tristan.

“Sir! The king requests your presence. He’s awaits in his private gardens. The orchards!”

The page continued with, “And milord, have you seen Lady Morgana? The duchess has the entire castellany out searching for her. I’m afraid she’s run off.”

“Of course she has,” Tristan scoffed, winking Isolde’s way.

Tristan departed. Isuelt observed how intensely her daughter watched the lion with that smirk of admiration. It was troublesome, to say the least.

Moments later, Iseult and Isolde were leading their retinue through an arcade on the second floor of the palace. They were high up, overlooking a busy plaza of merchants bartering their finest goods directly to the royal staff. After walking a considerable distance in awkward silence, Queen Iseult finally asked, “Will he be a problem for you and your betrothed?”

Isolde chuckled at the thought. Her light blue gaze wandered into the plaza and settled on a cart of ripe strawberries.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Isolde.

“I see. So you’ve tried.”

“Can you blame me? Never before have I ever felt so foolish, and yet I can’t help but marvel. Tristan and Gawain, they’re so full of loyalty and honor! I can’t believe such men exists,” Isolde gushed.

“Neither can I,” said the queen.

Isolde laughed off her mother’s cynicism but that laughter was cut short when she locked eyes with the man selling the strawberries in the plaza. The merchant had just finished with a customer when and he looked up and smiled at the princess. Isolde recognized him. The merchant was a Hibernian posing as local, one of Morholt’s warriors who had come ashore in the middle of the night. The warriors had randomly murdered merchants and stole their occupations to blend in.

Shocked, Isolde turned and stared at her mother. The queen knew exactly what she was thinking and shook her head, silently warning her not to ask questions.