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

Posted by Rock Kitaro on March 27, 2019
Posted in: Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

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 26 – Onslaught (Action Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 6, 2019
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This is a chapter I’m most proud of. When I was sixteen, I read Dale Furutani’s “Kill the Shogun.” It was the first time I read a novel in which I learned you could choreograph fights in a book or a novel. Before then, I’d just read “they engaged in battle” and the author presumes the reader’s imagination will do the rest. To me, that wasn’t enough.

However, if you’re skilled, you can describe a fight so much so that the reader can see each blow, each move, each block, each strike. Without further ado, I give you the climatic battle that engulfs Tintagel Castle. Princess Isolde has just been shot down by Gaheris’s arrow. The dike that held back the decades of strife and bad blood has been ruptured. The young men rise up and show why their generation will be the greatest knights Britannia’s ever seen.

Chapter 26 - Onslaught 2

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 26 – Onslaught
By Rock Kitaro

“RAAAAAAAAAAAARRGHH!!!”

Tristan’s roar reverberated louder than a chorus of angry trumpets. The Lion of Dumnonia was still leaning over the chopping block when he saw his beloved collapse to her knees. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and with brute force, Tristan curled his biceps and snapped the thick ropes binding his wrists.

The soldiers near the scaffold advanced to restrain him but Tristan was out of his mind. All he saw was red and there was no difference between friend or foe. He picked up a bench and crashed it against the four men sending them sprawling.

Another knight and old hunting buddy stood in his way with open palms trying to reason with him. Tristan slung the buddy by his breastplate as if he was nothing but a pillow. Trepidation kept other knights at bay as Tristan shouldered through the mass of hysteria. After shouldering through the crowd, Tristan slid to his knees and scooped up the wounded Isolde.

Panic struck like a stomped ant pile. Over 2,000 civilians rushed for the exits. Clanging steel and forceful grunts picked up as the battle began. Swords were drawn. Bows were pulled. The shimmer from raised shields flashed from every corner. Orders were drowned out by screams and crashes. Soon, the exits became clogged as soldiers struggled to enter and join the fray. It was chaos.

“NO!!! Don’t touch her! You’re not fit to touch my daughter!” Queen Iseult screamed as Sir Maven damn-near had to drag the queen to safety.

Like a guardian angel, Tristan wept and held Isolde close to his chest. Such sadness. Intense grief and an abandon of all ambition beset Tristan and Isolde as they pressed their faces together, blending their sweat and tears. The queen called for his head over and over again. Sir Maven and five guards had no choice but to physically lift her off the ground and carry her out of an exit.

“Fire the cannons!” Algayre shouted.

At once, a Hibernian archer hidden on the roof took up his long bow and set an arrow ablaze. Arching back, he aimed high and released. The flaming arrow sailed out of the abbey, southbound towards the edge of a precipice where five barrels of oil were stacked in a triangle. The thunderous explosion blasted fleeing citizens into the air and ignited a fire that spread from a pair of oak trees.

It was a signal to the Hibernian battleships at sea. Within seconds, a volley of cannonballs was unleashed but their aimed wasn’t to hit the castle. The booming cannons could be heard throughout the entire city. Morholt’s 260 warriors who had secretly come ashore were alerted. This was their cue to rise up and annihilate.

Horror and dread spread like a fast virus as slaughter screeched from every corridor, stairway, and plaza. But help was on the way.

King Lot heeded the earlier warning brought forth by Gawain and Constantine. Gawain predicted the ambush would begin at the wedding, but the prudent King Lot wasn’t the type to procrastinate. He ordered his Lothian knights to remain diligent, alert and ready, especially when the royal household was all gathered in one place.

When Morholt’s warriors attacked, the Lothians emerged in full battle armor. They combed through the waves of fleeing citizens and engaged the enemy Hibernians, crossing blades in the corridors, the stairways, and the plazas.

By the time Queen Iseult was carried to her ship at the Port of Talons, intense fighting had spilled out of Angel’s Square and into the streets. The monstrous Morholt had already chopped down nine men and he was just getting warmed up.

In Angel’s Square, Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain were taking on all comers. It wasn’t long before Agravain began to splinter off on his own but Gawain wasn’t worried. Constantine joined Gawain and Gaheris with a sword and shield. He wasn’t as skilled as the brothers, but his bravery was up to par.

Gawain’s feet never stayed in one place for less than a second. He moved from side-to-side in a crescent sweep to protect his sharpshooting little brother. With nerves of steel, Gaheris’s arrows sniped off rival archers who were hiding on the roof and within the cloisters. His accuracy was ridiculous. Out of the sixteen arrows he let sail, he only missed once.

“HO!”

A loud crash of exploding bricks and mortar got everyone’s attention. Morholt had just rammed his way into Angel’s Square. Two knights challenged with a loud battle cry. Morholt swept them away with a single swing from his mighty ax. Then, his beer-stained eyes turned and settled on the back of the lion.

“Tristan…” Morholt grumbled.

By now, Isolde was no longer blinking. The trails of tears had crusted over her face and she could no longer feel Tristan’s warmth. With her last bit of strength, Princess Isolde caressed Tristan’s cheek and whispered, “Don’t lose.”

Tristan’s stone cold eyes slowly elevated to the massive obstruction that was blocking the sun from view. With his sights locked on the beast, Tristan carefully lowered the beauty to the grass. His cheeks convulsed as a tremendous roar of absolutely nothing to lose came blaring from his throat.

The entire courtyard seemed to tremor as Tristan and Morholt charged for each other. When he was close enough, Morholt raised his ax for a downward swing but Tristan flew at him like a missile, ramming his rock hard shoulders into Morholt’s gut and causing the giant to drop his blade. Tristan tackled Morholt into the now vacant royal platform and completely obliterated the structure on impact. Splinters of wood chips flew everywhere.

It was a brawl unlike any other, like two grizzly bears mindlessly swinging their fists, relying on nothing other than maximum power and true grit. Each blow sounded like thick slapping steaks. Morholt would grab Tristan and hurl him against a wall. Tristan would bounce back with a two-handed clubbing attack to send Morholt skidding in the grass.

Soldiers on both sides did their best to stand clear. It was terrifying. They had to fight in the midst of a destructive tornado that wreaked havoc in an unpredictable warpath. Anyone caught in their way were crushed, bludgeoned, or used as weapons.

In the market plaza just two blocks north of the St. Gabriel’s Abbey, the red-scarfed Pellinore was running across a breezeway when he caught sight of Hibernian warriors racing for the back entrance of the royal palace. With a hungry grin, Pellinore ignored Kanish’s advice to take the stairs. He leaped over a railing and dropped two tiers to land in an open yard where mothers where herding their children indoors.

Clutching his serrated sword with both hands, Pellinore unleashed a ravenous roar and sprinted towards a wall of twenty warriors all by himself. The children cried and screamed for someone to help him.

Pellinore didn’t need any help.

As he came within twenty feet of the closest halberd, he launched into the air and flung his long sword like a dagger to impale the closest man. He landed and snatched the shaft of two spears before the tips could scratch his armor, redirecting their momentum to stab each other. He yanked his sword out of the dead man and began cutting down warriors left and right like a scout hacking through vegetation in the jungle. He was so fast, his swings, so powerful that confusion spread. And when his eager Black Bloods joined the fray, the Hibernians didn’t stand a chance.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 22 – Weighed Down (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 8, 2019
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Gawain finds the fugitives Tristan and Isolde holed up in a cave by the sea. With a dagger to his throat, Gawain does his best to convince the star-crossed lovers to turn themselves in.

Chapter 22 - Weighed Down

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 22 – Weighed Down
By Rock Kitaro

White lightning stretched like veins across the night as a single rider stormed over the hills. His cape rustled violently in the wind. He coiled the reins and held on tight as the hooves of his warhorse pounded the earth.

The darkness, he did not fear. Being thrown from his horse, he did not fear. Even when he was skirting the edge of a bluff with a fifty-foot drop, Gawain was not afraid. He throttled his horse and spurred harder, faster. Time was of the essence, but more than that, the danger, the adrenaline coursing through his body was like morphine to the anxiety of self-loathing sorrow.

After riding for nearly two hours, Gawain arrived at the southern coast. St. Michael’s Mount appeared as a black iceberg floating five hundred yards off shore. It was an island with an abbey erected on top. As Gawain stood on the rocky shoreline with waves crashing beneath his feet, he could see signs of life, candles flickering from the windows.

However, Gawain did not come to see the abbey. Even if the nuns accepted Isolde into their convent, it seemed unlikely that Tristan would go through all that trouble just to give her away and leave.

A breeze blew through his long curly locks. Demons seemed to be laughing from the clouds with each flash of light. As if the storm was daring Gawain to plunge into the unforgiving waves.

Gawain turned his attention to the vertical landmass to his right. It was a sea cliff with jagged edges and jarring protrusions, dotted with dozens of caves. Some say these were the caves of harpies, the same ones from Homer’s Odyssey. As the trade winds swept through the channel and scraped against the massive wall, an eerie howl whirled about like wailing banshees begging for a swift and merciful end. At present, the caves appeared dark, hollow, and vacant.

Gawain removed his cape and strapped it to the horse. He considered removing his chain mail and breastplate but elected to keep them on. It was nearly pitch black. The lightning provided brief flashes of his surroundings, flashes he had to commit to memory.

Stepping into the sinking sand with the edge of the tide grazing over his boots, Gawain skirted the shoreline as he approached the sea cliff. Once the water was up to his knees, it was time to climb.

Exploding waves drenched Gawain from head to toe. He’d cringe and turn his face away from the spray. Then he’d continue on, sliding his fingers into the cracks with his toes and insoles carrying the grunt of his weight.

“This is insanity!”

Gaheris’s words persisted like a sore throat. Gawain’s forearms were burning and his metal breastplate made it difficult to hug the wall the way he wanted. He inspected three hollow caves and found nothing. There had to be at least two dozen more. To check them all, given his increasing fatigue, “insanity” seemed about right.

An hour had passed. Sweat and saltwater made his eyes sting. He could barely see. That was, until he looked down. At that exact moment, lightning flash and showed him a nightmare from which he truly wished he could wake. The dark ocean looked like boiling oil beneath his feet. Loud blasts of thunder resonated in his chest and in the split second of sheer fright, Gawain lost his grip. His mind went blank. The cliff wall was right in front of him, and suddenly so far away.

It happened so quickly. He didn’t realize he was falling until his back hit the water with a table-breaking crash. The cold sea had swallowed him whole.

…

Gawain stared in a half sedated state, submerged in place as if the ocean was still deciding what to do with him. The sky had other plans. It struck the sea with a powerful bolt of lightning. The electric current hit Gawain, accelerating his heart. Now fully alert, he gasped and sucked in more water, choking as he clutched his throat and cringed at the burning sensation filling his lungs. He tried to swim up towards the blurred flashes of light. But no matter how much he tried, he kept sinking. The armor was weighing him down. Seemed pointless. Easier just to let go and die.

As Gawain closed his eyes and felt but a taste of not having to worry about anything else ever again, he was grabbed by his breastplate and yanked up with an incredible force. Gawain emerged from the salty sea and was dragged up the cliff wall, wheezing and coughing up all sorts of fluids, desperate to fill his lungs with air. Tristan was holding him with one hand, and scaling the stone wall with the other.

Upon reaching a cave twenty meters up, Tristan slung Gawain in like a ragdoll, causing him to roll and hit his head on a rock.

“DON’T!” Tristan shouted.

A flash of light revealed a wide-eyed Isolde hovering over Gawain with a dagger aimed for his heart. Gawain was scared stiff. It was if Isolde didn’t even recognize him. The absence of emotion or compassion, the cold stillness in the way she brandished her blade. Gawain didn’t move a muscle. The last thing he wanted was for the viper to strike.

 

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

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 20, 2018
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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 14: The Juggling Act (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 9, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Everyone’s on pins and needles as the enemy Hibernians finally arrive to take back Princess Isolde.

Here we’re introduced to infamous figures such as Morholt the Destroyer and the warlock Algayre. Then there’s Queen Iseult, the Emerald Queen who’s dominated all of Hibernia for nearly half a century. But King Mark isn’t about to just hand the princess over, no questions asked. A pact needs to be made. A proposal is made.

Chapter 13 - The Juggling Act

Chapter 14: The Juggling Act
By Rock Kitaro

The Port of Talons was an inlet harbor shaped like a horseshoe. Ancient walls of limestone stretched up over a hundred feet to conceal its presence from most of the coast. Saltwater entered and passed through its only accessway beneath high arching bridges that connected two collossol cliffs. This strategic seaport was closed to the public, reserved for the purpose of the palace, for receiving and leaving.

Over five-hundred ironclad soldiers had assembled, dotted on the rocky hills that sloped down like an ampitheather. There was a glazing mist. It moved, making the air grainy and tangible to touch. The fog was so dense that no one could see beyond the gap of the two cliffs. It was as if the world simply ended after the gate.

No one made a sound. Save for the seagulls and gushing waves, no one so much as cleared their throats. Everyone had the same grim expression as if they were standing on the front lines of battle. The only one smiling was an eager Princess Isolde, glowing in her white dress and braided blonde hair. As she stood by King Mark’s side, her heart racing with anticipation. She’d been fantasizing about this moment for quite some time.

The Lord Chamberlain, Sir Cador, made it clear that everyone was to be on their best behavior. Anyone accused of shouting or so much as coughing risked getting their teeth knocked out by a fist full of chains. On this, Sir Cador promised to show no mercy.

The Cornish rallied behind King Mark, Sir Ekner, and Tristan, all daunting in black and gold with their banners flapping high in the wind.

The Lothians stood behind King Lot and Queen Morgaus, all coordinated in silver and green, save for Morgaus who insisted on her favorite color of purple.

Gawain was with the Lothians higher up on the hill. Agravain and Gaheris stood his side. The brothers watched in awe as a gigantic ship with seven green sails of dragon wings suddenly took form and emerged from the fog. The dread was sudden and immense. Gawain knew it was the queen’s ship. He’s seen it a dozen times, but never in action. He never thought such a massive ship was capable of moving, let alone float. It was larger than most of the banquet halls, yet it seemed to slide across the water so smoothly that the crests of its wake rolled like silk.

On the other side of the inlet, Morgan sat on her horse from a high precipice. She overlooked the scene dressed like the grim reaper the way her hooded black cloak shredded in the wind. She wasn’t impressed with the ship. She expected nothing less. It was the throbbing in Gawain’s heart that made her purple eyes glower with growing intensity. From two hundred yards out, she could sense the sweltering heat from his tight fisted trepidation.

The ship came to a gentle wood-creeking halt as workers tied the mooring lines ashore. An unloading platform extended from the ship to the dock. Once it was fastened in place, loud horns blared from the trumpeteers. It was a jaunty tune, certainly bringing life to the macabre faces on the hills. And when Princess Isolde spotted Sir Ewangish, she nearly jumped with glee. Sir Ewangish was the same weathered knight who accompanied her to the Picts. He was relieved.

Sir Ewangish was the first to disembark, followed by twenty of the queen’s guards. The Hibernians wore dark intimidating green and black armor and carried long pikes that were sharp enough to pierce chainmail. They marched in a double-file formation, stomping in perfect unison, clanking to create a synchronized cadence of rattling steel. The two lines stopped in front of King Mark.

Ewangish signaled to the ship. The horns stopped blaring.

In its place were soft angelic voices that blended and lifted up to the heavens. Their Latin song was so pleasant, so clean and pure. It alleviated the tension and imbued a subtle breath of optimism. Three girls approached the rails high up on the ship. They held hands and kept singing as they looked down on gawking eyes. They carried and extended their falsettos in ways no one had ever heard. The spellbinding emotion invoked by their voices was truly indescribable. They were the queen’s beloved songbirds. Her treasure.

Then, like an elegant swan spreading her wings, the queen herself approached the platform. She was known far and wide as the “Emerald Queen” and it was for good measure. Even as she neared sixty in age, there wasn’t a single crack in her exquisite visage. Her long flowing hair was so devoid of any pigmentation that it appeared pale green, the same shade as her peridot eyes and the waters that flowed through the inlet. Her long velvety gown was forest green and there was the soft fur of a beaver draping her shoulders.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 12 – The Most Uncontrollable Emotion (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 26, 2018
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It’s a spectacular night where the Hall of Roses pulse to pounding drums and beating hearts. Tintagel Castle celebrates the homecoming of Prince Gawain. And whilst everyone hopes to make him an ally, his eye is on the alluring Morgan le Fay.

There’s music, magic, and intrigue. And as with every dance, envy erupts, hormones explode and if you’re not careful, you might find yourself on the receiving end of blunt force trauma. In this arm’s race between hot-blooded men and seductive women, it’s not the drink that induces rage and retaliation. It’s lust.

Chapter 12 - The Most Uncontrollable Emotion

Chapter 12 – The Most Uncontrollable Emotion
By Rock Kitaro

Awesome fireworks lit up the sky. It shimmered and rained from far. If just for one night, in hopeful delight, everyone was his or her own special star. There was electricity in the air as the golden horns blared, and smiles from ear to ear. But who could have guessed, that this would, at best, be the moment that all should have feared.

A cool breeze, but pleasantly so. It stimulated the senses and made the very essence of anticipation somewhat exciting. Eager young hearts descended upon the Hall of Roses in spectacular fashion. Horse driven carriages came in a steady procession. Each stopped on a red carpet as baby-faced ushers helped women with their ball gowns, careful to keep them from touching the dirt.

The lads arrived in droves, all hot-blooded and spurred with confidence. Eager to meet the woman of their dreams, they wore their optimism with regalia on full display. The duchesses and baronesses were uplifted and transported by the extravagance of purple, blue, and gold bursting in air. It was amazing. They didn’t have to go to Camelot or Avalon to find fairy tales. They were living it, all under the same roof.

And what a glorious roof it was. Three hours after the sun had set, King Mark had already given his commencement speech and the celebration was well underway with over 5,000 in attendance. The king spared no expense in making this a night no one would ever forget.

The Hall of Roses was dolled up with green vines and radiant roses swirling the colossal columns as loose petals fell like glittering red flakes of snow. All 580 wax candles blazed from the stunning antler chandelier. Over sixty Hellenistic marble statues were scattered about, drawing much awe and serving as excellent conversational pieces.

At a time where the fiddle and dreary choir music dominated festivals, musicians were granted permission to showcase their newest experimentations. The Hall of Roses pulsed and shook with the profound banging of tribal drums. The beat was accompanied by an arrangement of over forty symphonic string instruments called violins and cellos. No one had ever heard such a heavy sound. Nor would they for another hundred years. Forty-eight musicians blended in perfect harmony to create a charged tempo that coursed through the veins of everyone there. It was a entrancing to say the least.

The actual enchanting, however, was left to professionals. Over a hundred prepubescent ladies dressed in blue fabrics frolicked amongst the guests in the theme of water nymphs. They were coordinated in their dance and, in various locations, took over the center of the dance floor to entertain with synchronized spins and waves in hypnotic fashion.

Court jesters with blue and black painted faces weaved themselves in and out of group circles. They took over conversations, replacing them with whimsical jokes and slapstick comedy. It was a real hoot for the older gentlemen who weren’t as spry enough to risk injury on the dance floor.

Fast shadows swiped on and off of the guests, drawing their attention to the daredevils dashing above. They wore white robes with wings and swung on harnesses in smooth maneuvers. These angels and cherubs flew to and from as they sprinkled petals and pretended to play golden harps. And just above them was the real spectacle to behold.

Stationed in the interior balconies atop the baroque crown molding, were six pyromancers dressed in dark hooded purple cloaks. Their old wrinkled hands were stretched out like puppet masters, but there were no strings on these decrepit fingers. They manipulated streams of fire from the wall torches mounted on all fifty bronze columns. And with their magic, the pyromancers would turn the fire into lukewarm purple flames, animating astonishing illusions.

Radiant bodies of celestial spheres floated above the angels and cherubs, rotating, fluctuating, shrinking and expanding. Wondrous constellations dispersed from exploding supernovas, the inconceivable conceived. Heaven itself had raised her curtains and guests were mesmerized by a glimpse of it. It was like levitating in a dream that lightened the load of one’s burden. The guests didn’t need to socialize to have a good time. One could just lie on the golden floor and stare up at the heights.

A buffet of sweet treats and smoked meats covered three fifteen-foot tables. The largest table held bulky barrels of honey wine. As expected, this was where the Brood of Black Bloods staggered about. Pellinore was having the time of his life as bedazzled ladies competed to make his acquaintance. The dashing young Pellinore was well aware of the lure he had on women and the jealousy fuming from his comrades caused him to roar with laughter.

More than once, Tristan looked over and rolled his eyes at the repugnant noise of Pellinore’s making. The exquisite Lady Annaliese maintained a firm grasp on Tristan’s arm but not his attention. When Tristan wasn’t supervising Pellinore, he was monitoring the deviance of Princess Isolde.

The blue-eyed Isolde was absolutely stunning in her sleek white dress and glistening golden hair. She turned heads wherever she went, leaving a lingering scent of stimulating fragrances that stirred the blood of all men. At the moment, King Mark was taking the time to formally introduce her to various members of the royal court.

Everyone was polite enough but they knew she was the Helen of Troy by which the Hibernians were coming to reclaim. Isolde smirked at their apprehensions and made no attempts to assuage their anxiety. She’d simply nod in small-talk and pretend to be utterly captivated by the purple stars shining above. The Duchess Igraine suggested King Mark take her for a dance and, while stiff in the knees, the good king obliged.

Joining Lot and Morgaus on the dance floor, King Mark took Isolde by the waist and pranced her about like a ballerina. She giggled with genuine joy and it surprised the king to find such satisfaction in seeing her happy. He was nearly twenty years her senior, but from the way she smiled, he was rejuvenating. There wasn’t an ounce of fear or reticence in her. The king was taken aback by the boldness of her hands, the way she gingerly massaged his beard, and even took him for a twirl.

At last, the ice around Tristan’s heart began to melt. He saw his enamored king and for the first time Tristan was grateful to have Isolde grace them with her presence.

“Gaheris!”

“Oh, Gaheris!”

“Prince Gaheris!”

Agravain was only fourteen so it didn’t take many drinks to impair his mental faculties. The endless gaggle of girls calling Gaheris’s name was beginning to get irritating. At first, he was resilient, impassive as his older brother was besieged by beauty. But after Gaheris bumped into him to evade the lunging lips of a kiss, envy ignited.

The bearded Constantine noticed and offered Debra’s hand for a dance. Fuming under the collar, Agravain reluctantly accepted as the kind-hearted Debra took him by the hand and led him onto the floor. Meanwhile, Constantine glowered at Gaheris who was now the prized center of ten of Tintagel’s most beautiful daughters. Gaheris felt the scathing stare and laughingly escaped groping hands to approach and inquire.

“Something vexes thee?” Gaheris asked as he struggled to stop smirking.

“You unruly bastard. Would you just pick one and be done with it?” said Constantine.

“Yes, well that’s easier said than done,” Gaheris grinned.

“Just pick one!”

“Wait, Constantine. See, you say that. However, the difficulty therein lies with-”

“Yes! Yes, Gaheris! Please. Please explain the abject horror of possessing the power of such appeal. Such hell!” Constantine shouted.

Gaheris chuckled, “Gladly! For starters…”

As Gaheris began a very detailed explanation with scholastic elocution, Constantine secretly plotted how he was going to knock him out and make it look like an accident. The girls gradually buzzed over like bees to pollen, and soon, Debra lost sight of Constantine from her position on the dance floor. She was beset by reasonable concern.

“Debra, thank you! You should go,” Agravain shouted over the music with a grateful curtsy.

Debra pouted, “Oh, Agravain. You’re so young. One day, women with fall to your feet the same way they do Gaheris. Just wait. You’ll see.”

Her words did little to move the heavy stones mounting in his heart. Agravain merely nodded and walked away, disappearing in the spirited sea of dancing crowns, capes and corsages. Everyone had a partner, a companion who sought none other. At almost every turn he was bumping into someone who easily recognized the lonely look on his face.

First it was his aunt, the Lady Elaine, a woman of reputed fame who had two knights nearly come to blows just for her hand in a single volta. Elaine chose neither and instead whisked Agravain away, lecturing him never to become like those brutes. The aunt and nephew enjoyed each other’s company briefly before Tristan’s friend, Bruno, arrived in his sharp green cloak. Bruno bowed before Agravain and asked for Elaine’s hand. Agravain approved. And again, Agravain trudged on.

Moments later, four lovely virgins dressed as blue water nymphs came and took him by the hand, twirling him around and around. Agravain blushed with embarrassment, spellbound by their remarkable beauty and painted blue eye shadow, but then, an ecstatic shriek from his mother broke that spell. The sight of Lot nibbling on Morgaus’s neck was enough to make Agravain cringe in disgust.

The giddy Queen Morgaus was reaching out for Agravain while a frisky King Lot held her tight. They were drunk and it wasn’t the first time Agravain’s seen them like this. Mead always made them a little too affectionate for his taste. Agravain didn’t want Morgaus’s wet slathering kisses drenching his face, so away he went.

A hand reached out and grabbed one of Agravain’s padded shoulders. He was clutched with such strength that Agravain instinctively reacted with an aggressive swing. He missed. Gawain removed his hand just in time.

“Whoa! Aggie, what happened?” asked the eldest brother.

The young gallant Gawain was conversing with six Lothian knights. For most of the party, ambitious statesmen ceaselessly approached Gawain in the hopes of establishing a powerful political ally. It was too obvious. Thus, Agravain saw through their pretentious smiles. The wall that held back his temper was beginning to crack.

“Hey!” Gawain leaned in to whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t trust these men.” Agravain warned. “They’re not your friends. Neither is Toothless Kersey or the rest of those sycophants.”

Gawain chuckled with a soft smile, “Well, of course I don’t trust them. I’ve only just met them. What’s wrong, Agravain? I see the ire of a scorched heart in you. Tell me.”

Agravain was touched by his brother’s empathy and became glossy eyed as he muttered, “I hate this.”

Gawain nodded, “Let’s get out of here and go for a walk. Just the two of us.”

“No. This is all for you. You should stay and enjoy it.”

“Hey, wait!” Gawain called.

Gawain shouldered his way through the crowd, determined to catch up with his little brother who darted under connected arms and around gowns like a rabbit racing to its dent. He lost sight of Agravain, and almost as soon, he lost sight of everything else.

Everything, except for her.

 

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 10 – The Eldest Daughter (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 12, 2018
Posted in: Knights With No Lords, Original Stories. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Here, we’re introduced to Queen Morgaus, the fierce she-bear of a mother when it comes to Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain. Ever since Morgan ran away with the brothers, Castle Tintagel has been on pins and needles, fearing the wrath of Morgaus and praying for the day everyone returns safely. That day comes.

The clouds give way to sunshine and all of Tintagel rejoices. But still…in the triumph of Gawain’s return and their subsequent capture of Princess Isolde…no one thanks Morgan. No one even acknowledges her presence or gives her any credit. It’s just like when they were kids. Gawain is the light, favored by all. While she is the darkness, ignored and forgotten.

Chapter 10 - The Eldest Daughter - artwork by WLOP from his comic Ghostbladeartwork from WLOP and his “Ghostblade” series

Chapter 10: The Eldest Daughter
By Rock Kitaro

In the weeks following the disappearance of Morgan, Gaharis, and Agravain, the mood at Tintagel had soured immensely. King Mark, in particular, felt an enormous sense of responsibility since no one had reported their absence for days after the Council of Gold Clovers left to return to their respective domains.

Sir Cador, the Lord Chamberlain, dispatched his own son to lead the search party, but Constantine’s failure to produce results in the first few weeks cast dread over the city. Making matters worse was the fact that Tristan had also disappeared. King Mark was convinced that Tristan was with Morgan and the princes, but his personal assurance wasn’t enough to satisfy an unforgiving mother.

For nearly four weeks, the maids, masons, stewards, and guards walked with stiffness in their shoulders. Everyone performed his or her duties to the utmost perfection for fear of maximum reprisal. Even the elderly Sir Ekner was on edge as he presided over the training halls in the Western Ward. Tintagel’s devoted knights practiced with due diligence as prognostications of pending battles were on the tips of everyone’s tongue.

The castle’s labyrinth of corridors were devoid of laughter or glee. Melancholy and foreboding anxiety spread like a contagious disease. Even the sun itself stayed hidden behind a blanketed overcast of dark clouds, sending only an easterly wind to howl through the alleys.

There was no talk of sport or recreation. All hunts and banquets were cancelled. The musicians kept to the abbeys, and on the king’s orders, all choirs were forbidden from raising their heavenly voices. Taverns closed early. Ale was outlawed. Duels were suspended and no one could ride horses faster than a trot.

Most citizens thought King Mark’s decrees were unfounded, unreasonable, and unjust. However, the royal court knew and understood the king’s logic. It was more so a precaution than a sign of despair. That’s because Tintagel had guests. If there’s one thing King Mark feared more than an invasion from King Vortigern…it was the combined wrath of the Duchess Igraine and her eldest daughter, Queen Morgaus.

Morgaus was the eldest daughter of Igraine and the late Duke Gorlois. She was married to King Lot of Lothian and more importantly, she was the adoptive mother of Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain.

The twenty-nine-year-old Morgaus was much like her youngest sister Morgana in appearance, blessed with bold eyes and rich brown hair. Morgaus was strong, ready and able to perform manual labor if she needed to. She loved dressing in purple fabrics. Her favorite ensemble consisted of a purple dress with a black leather bodice strapped around her ribcage. Her shoulders would be draped by warm fur. Even her gold crown donned an exquisite arrangement of smooth sapphire stones.

Growing up in Tintagel, Morgaus was popular due to her warm personal affection to both the rich and the poor, the guests and the staff. She was praised for her beauty, but Morgaus beat back vanity and conquered her own conceit. She was humble at every turn, often volunteering in the neighboring villages to oversee building projects such as schools and nurseries.

Like Elaine, Morgaus was always smiling, always optimistic despite the constant flow of tumultuous news that poured in from the violent world around them. She rarely complained or overstepped her bounds. Even when she felt she was being mistreated, she’d simply remember the less fortunate and take it with a grain of salt.

However…this was also what made her so scary. Everyone in Tintagel knew it.
Morgaus had lines that should never be crossed. All of those lines related to the safety and security of her boys.

Years ago, Gaheris and Agravain were kidnapped during their first mission to the Roman Emperor Lucius. Queen Morgaus suspected the guards had betrayed them. Without any evidence, she had them arrested. They were tortured and forced to swallow hot boiling lead until one of them spoke up. The problem was, she was right. The guards had indeed taken a bribe to give up their route. Since then, Morgaus’s every intuition was treated as a matter of fact. This made her a very scary individual.

In her relentless pursuit to get her boys back, Morgaus coaxed King Lot into making a pact with a famous sorcerer named Kaidan. Fire and brimstone literally rained down on Emperor Lucius’s northern armies. When Kaidan brought the boys back and demanded payment, Morgaus reminded him that he was her subject and threatened to cut off his hand if he ever held it out again expecting compensation so brazenly. It was the first time Kaidan ever cancelled a debt and news of the incident spread.

“Morgaus is fearsome…”

Yes, when it came to her sons, the fable of a ferocious she-bear protecting her cubs was made true by her existence. There was nothing King Lot could do about it. He resigned to the role of a supporting husband and did his best to placate her. And now… Gaheris and Agravain had gone missing, yet again. The berating Duke Tiburne got was beyond excessive.