Last month, I entered The Knights with No Lords: The One Called Gawain into the Reader Views Literary Awards. The entry included a professional review of the novel, and when the email arrived with the results, I almost didn’t want to believe what I was seeing. Five Stars Baby!!!
The reviewer called the novel:
⚔️ “A modern masterpiece.”
⚔️ “The most glorious prose.”
⚔️ A book with battle scenes written with “a precision rarely seen.”
And then came the line that absolutely floored me:
“Chances are, this will be the best fantasy book you read this year.”
Tristan and Pellinore finally throw down to settle an old score. Meanwhile, Gawain comes to terms with his own inner demons and the threat that’s looming beyond the horizon.
You see, on the surface, Prince Gawain is the so-called paragon of virtue, always doing the right thing, embracing responsibility and fending off indulgences. But deep down, Gawain has a gift for manslaughter. He showed a glimpse of it last night. Morgan thinks he’s wearing a mask. So badly, she just wants him to take it all off.
Chapter 13 – Lions and Wolves By Rock Kitaro
“Sorry for calling you all the way out here. The lads will get mad if they find out about this,” said Pellinore, squatting with the naked blade of his claymore propped up against his shoulder.
“No matter. It’s my duty as the Champion of Cornwall to accept any challenge, anytime,” Tristan grinned with crossed arms resting on his puffed out chest.
“That’s good. That’s good. This pleases me.”
“Just one thing, Pellinore. After I finish beating you to a pulp, you better not blame it on last night’s libation.”
“You bastard. That’s my line.”
Both men were without armor. The golden lion wore a gray shirt with brown slacks. The dark wolf was without his red scarf, wearing a black sleeveless shirt and black pants.
It was a brisk clean day with clear blue skies. The morning sun gleamed like a pearl, not too bright, not too dull. A refreshing wind rustled through their light fabrics. The duelists had convened on an isolated ridge near the coastal cliffs of Treknow with their horses grazing nearby. The grass beneath their boots was soft and slick. Waves crashed against the rocks, erupting with a spray that cooled their heated bodies.
Pellinore’s claymore was four and a half feet long. It was double-edged with one side serrated like a steak knife. He’s had it ever since he was sixteen and not once has it cracked or slipped from his grasp. Tristan’s long sword was a foot shorter but had a longer handle, long enough for four hands to clamp it at once. Tristan didn’t have any special bond with this sword. It was just one that he picked up from the armory as he was riding out for the morning.
The alpha predators circled each other with razor sharp focus. Pellinore made the first move. He sprung forth in a spectacular leap, clutching his sword with both hands for a vertical strike. Tristan sidestepped and countered with a rising sweep. It was blocked and sparks flew. The two crossed blades in a test of strength but it was Pellinore’s heels that scraped back as Tristan pushed forward.
In a snarling chuckle, Pellinore taunted, “I’m not the same whelp from before! Everyday I’ve trained with the thought of beating you.”
Tristan responded with three swooping strikes. Each time Pellinore deflected it, sparks flew. The third strike hit Pellinore so hard that he was sent stumbling back. A laughing Pellinore jumped to his feet and extended in a straightforward lunge. Tristan spun out of the way but it was just a ruse. Halfway through the lunge, Pellinore twirled his blade and swiped at Tristan’s thighs. He drew first blood.
Ignoring the pain, Tristan unleashed another procession of whistle-singing swings. Pellinore blocked each one and when Tristan got too close, Pellinore whacked him with his pommel. Tristan staggered back but kept his guard up as his opponent maintained pressure.
Pellinore was clearly the superior swordsman in terms of skill and technique. He displayed a dazzling array of difficult moves with effortless precision. He punctured and landed cuts all over Tristan’s upper body, shredding his shirt and stinging him like spikes of searing hot metal. Even when it came to defense, Pellinore was better trained. He could telepath Tristan’s trajectory and was quicker on his feet.
The problem was Tristan’s ungodly strength. Each time Pellinore blocked an attack, his arms would rattle and send teeth-clenching vibrations to tense up his back. It was an extreme exertion of energy just to push away and Tristan seemed to have the stamina of a racehorse, pounding, hacking, and grunting with monstrous aggression.
Every time the two crossed blades, Tristan would use brute force to shove Pellinore away like kicking a door off its hinges. Pellinore would fall with the wind knocked out of him but he’d keep coming back. Again and again, he rose and unleashed a relentless barrage until suddenly, Tristan started smiling. It wasn’t to taunt Pellinore, but rather it had been a while since Tristan was able to spar with an opponent of his own standing. He acknowledged that Pellinore had indeed improved and was genuinely impressed.
Five minutes later, three galloping horses approached the highlands of Treknow. It was Princesss Isolde riding with two Cornish knights, her armed escorts. Isolde was kept warm by a gray wool cloak that covered her borrowed blue dress. A bare-chested Tristan was using the rags of his shredded shirt to wrap his shallow wounds. He turned and saw Isolde staring with her blonde hair blowing in the wind.
“What are you doing here?” said Tristan.
“Your king was gracious enough to allow me a ride under escort,” Isolde said as she leaned over and scratched the neck of her mare.
Tristan furrowed his brows with disapproval.
“And you, brave Pellinore? Do you require a physician?” Isolde teased.
An exhausted Pellinore was sprawled on his back with a half-sedated gaze fixated on the blue sky. Oddly enough, there wasn’t a single laceration on his body. But after being tossed about like a rag doll for well over three minutes, his bones were brittle and his organs were on the verge of rupture. He might as well have been thrown from a speeding carriage.
There was, however, a stream of blood gushing from his broken nose. That’s because Tristan knocked him out with a vicious overhand right. Poor Pellinore had only just regained consciousness as the horses arrived.
“Tristan. Listen up,” Pellinore wheezed. “I’mma let you off the hook for today. Okay? You’re free to go.”
Tristan beamed with a bright, unexpected smile. It was probably the funniest thing he’d ever heard and he couldn’t stop snickering. Isolde shook her head with bewildered amusement as she wondered why Tristan found it so funny.
“Did you hear what he said?” Tristan said.
“Yes. We all did. Didn’t we?” Isolde smirked.
Tristan roared in a laugh so hearty that he collapsed to his knees and clutched a handful of soil. Pellinore started to laugh with him, but the pain in his midsection caused him to coil up tight.
…
Just two miles north, another young man had risen early. Gawain was sitting on a smooth rock slab within a cove on Trebarwith Strand. It was a scenic beach of crashing waves and cawing gulls. Monolithic towers of earthen formations were scattered along the shoreline as turbulent breakers exploded against them. The majestic cliffs surrounded the Y-shaped cove casting cold shadows over Gawain who was stationed in the middle.
There’s a lot of catching up to do. Gawainlearns about the tension between Britannia’s warring nations while his brothers learn about the hardships he had to endure while enslaved to the Hibernians. The youngsters come to terms with the fact that they’re living in a violent world of death and destruction. But despite the odds against them, everyone knows deep down…one day they will come to rule the world.
Photo by Jorge Barreda
Chapter 8 – Cascades By Rock Kitaro
Their mission was a success. Gawain was rescued and the capture of Princess Isolde was an added bonus. Tristan asserted himself as the party leader as they galloped a full day to cross south over the River Clyde. They didn’t consider themselves safe from King Drest’s reach until they were south of the river.
Daylight dwindled. They needed to find shelter soon. Tracing southbound along the river, Tristan led them to a magnificent waterfall that was once inhabited by dwarves a century earlier. A hollow cave at the base of the waterfall served as the gateway to deep boroughs hidden beneath the earth. There were still carvings of their ancient language etched in the cave wall. The symbols glowed bright orange, infused with ether and amber.
The valley at the bottom of this breathtaking waterfall was enclosed by flat slabs of marble and cream-colored limestone. Beyond the rock formations, a perimeter of flourishing green trees shrouded this oasis with a leafy canopy that stretched out over the river. Birds whistled. The cascade’s endless crash was pleasant to hear. The water was crisp and refreshing, so clear that they could see the smooth pebbles settled on the riverbed. It was perfect. They were isolated. They were safe.
Morgan and Isolde cleansed themselves under Kanish and Balto’s supervision while the rest of the men ventured out to hunt. It was an awkward situation for the ladies as Isolde distinctly remembered Morgan calling for her death. Isolde understood the animosity and was willing to forgive. Morgan, however, wasn’t too timid to hide her enmity. The malcontent was manifested by her hooded gaze and sporadic groans. It was annoying at first, but after Isolde realized that Morgan was several years her junior, the princess started to tolerate her presence.
Morgan kept her pink cotton dress on as she bathed. Isolde stripped until she was completely nude. Kanish and Balto tried their best not to peep but Isolde’s body was the very definition of exquisite. There wasn’t a single blemish, scar, or bruise on her sun-kissed body. Her breasts were full formed and smooth enough to cup steady in even the roughest of hands. Small dimples were perfectly indented above the derriere, and her toned midriff was smoother than a baby’s cheeks. As Isolde released her braids, her gorgeous hair flowed and bounced with a radiant glow. Balto glanced and was nearly floored by her beauty.
For Morgan, it only piqued her ire. Isolde reminded her of Elaine, blessed in all the ways she was not. Isolde and Elaine were both relatively tall with slim slender figures. Both had blonde hair and mesmerizing eye-smiles. Even when they were angry they projected heavenly grace. Whereas Morgan’s resting bitchface always prompted people to ask if something was wrong with her, a pastime she abhorred more than loneliness itself.
Haughty laughter in the distance signaled Pellinore’s return. Once the ladies were finished bathing, Pellinore, Tristan, Jeremy, Dantry, and Barxy swam nude. Pellinore kept trying to provoke Tristan with splashes but Tristan was too tired to strike back. Princess Isolde had confined herself to the cave hidden behind the veil of the cascade. She watched Tristan with an attentive gaze, giggling at the possibilities.
Morgan was now lounging on a smooth slab of limestone as she wrung out the fabric of her pink sunflower. She felt Gawain watching. Indeed, he was. As he prepared a deer for roasting, Gawain’s jade green eyes kept bouncing over to Morgan as if she was calling his name.
His heart thumped hard at the sight of her. For the young man, it was a dream come true. Few of her features were exactly as he remembered. Her deep alluring eyes, those mystifying long lashes. Her small mouth with kissable lips that remained so pouty and puckered. Unbeknownst to Morgan, she had developed in all the ways he found desirable. Her voluptuous figure of curves and concealed strength. The way excess water glistened off her ample thighs. The way her flawless snow-white complexion contrasted with her long, dark, brown hair.
Gawain took a mental picture of Morgan lounging on the rock with the roaring cascades casting a misty cloud under the setting sun. It was better than his dreams. This bliss…Gawain didn’t want it to end.
“It won’t take me long to make a new one. I’m not worried.”
Gawain caught the tail end of Gaheris speaking to Agravain. The younger brothers were waist-deep in water as they massaged wet stones over their shoulders.
“Not worried about what?” Gawain asked.
Agravain chuckled, “Gaheris broke the bow that he made for King Mark.”
Gawain burst with laughter. It was amazing to see how much they’ve grown. He had just finished skinning the deer when he heard the news of their baby brother, Gareth. Agravain elaborated by explaining how their mother Morgaus had married King Lot. Gawain was astounded to learn that they were now all princes of a foreign land called Lothian and Orkney.
“Of Lothian? Hack!” Pellinore interjected. “You might as well be heirs to the damn Picts the way Lot kisses up to the Romans.”
“What do you mean?” Gawain asked.
Gaheris explained, “Well, King Lot rules over Lothian and the northern islands of Orkney. We have over 10,000 men at arms but compared to Vortigern’s forces we’re merely toddlers playing at soldiers. To match manpower, Roman soldiers are loaned to us by Emperor Lucius. King Lot has to pay an annual tribute.”
Agravain added, “Gaheris and I were delivering a tribute last month when the emperor felt good enough to have us send messages along the battle lines in the war against the Franks. I swear it’s only a matter of time before he puts us in the vanguard.”
“Why you? Why send a squire on a knight’s errand?” Gawain questioned with low brows.
“They are princes, are they not? Comes with the price of eminence, boy. Best get used to it.” Pellinore scoffed as he stood up from the water and flaunted his manhood for all of nature to see.
For Gawain, it was a disquieting notion. He had just been liberated from one house and it appeared that he was about to be thrown into the conflict of another. He wondered how Morgan felt. He turned and caught her staring. As soon as they locked eyes, Morgan quickly averted. And much to Gawain’s chagrin, Morgan’s fleeing eyes settled on the naked ass of Pellinore. He was wading his way toward the cascades and the cave where Isolde was getting dressed.
“It’s not so bad. King Lot treats us alright,” Gaheris noted.
“And he’s kind to mother,” Agravain added.
“That’s great. Hey, Pellinore! Ho-How’s your son doing!?” Gawain quickly shouted in haste.
At once, all of the Black Bloods turned to Pellinore with a puzzled expression. Apparently they never knew he had a son. Taken aback by the question, Pellinore sank until the water reached the bottom of his chin and made his way closer to the brothers.
“Who told you I had a son?” Pellinore asked.
“You did. About seven years ago when we first met,” Gawain smirked.
“You have a son? You scoundrel! I thought you only had the two daughters?” Barxy asked.
“Aye, Percival’s my firstborn, a bastard from some peasant girl not far from Listenoise. Cries as much as his sisters. It drives me insane.”
Encroaching north into enemy territory, Morgan, Gaheris, and Agravainthink they’ve found their beloved Gawain in a wagon full of slaves. The emboldened youngsters get involved and bite off more they can chew when a horde of soldiers come to reclaim their prize. And, of course, all hell breaks loose when Tristan catches up with them. The Lion of Dumnonia shows them all, what it means to be the king of beasts.
The Word Alive – “Epiphany” (fight music)
Chapter 5 – Companions By Rock Kitaro
“Sing us a song!”
“No, Morgan. It’s the most annoying thing in the world,” Agravain grumbled.
“Why not? I thought that’s what soldiers do.”
“If you want music so bad, have at it,” Gaheris said as Agravain chuckled at the thought.
“Honestly, you two have got to be the dullest traveling companions ever.”
For six boring, uneventful days the three runaways rode hard and trekked hundreds of miles. So far, they’d managed to avoid confrontation and detection by traveling routes dictated by Morgan. They refrained from venturing out into open fields or flat lands, and instead confined themselves to the dense shrouded woodlands.
According to Morgan, certain areas of the forests enhanced her abilities. Of course, Gaheris was skeptical.
Three hours after sunset, the trio was still going strong. Normally, they would’ve hunkered down and sought shelter for the night. However, they were in the Woods of Frozen Dreams. The trees, rocks, and leaves were all encrusted in glowing baby blue crystals. The forest was riddled with small sinkholes full of milky turquoise water. They couldn’t ride their horses but had to guide them along narrow pathways to avoid plunging in.
Everything was so bright and gleaming that they could scarcely see without squinting. It would have been impossible to get any sleep until they left the forest, thus, they proceeded along a snake-winding trail that was just wide enough for two men to stand abreast.
Gaheris was still annoyed but he stopped griping days ago. Now it seemed as if Agravain had picked up the slack in that department because he was kicking at every crystal that stuck out at him. He kicked one pierce so hard that a chunk flew off and hit Morgan in the back of her head. She immediately turned around and started slapping him with the leather straps of her medicinal bag.
“Alright, alright. Keep moving. I want to get some sleep before sunrise,” Gaheris said as he nudged Morgan along.
“This was a horrible idea. There’s no end to this blasted forest! How do we even know we’re going the right way?” Agravain complained.
“I told you! The Hibernians make seasonal trips into the heart of Pictish territory. It’s our best bet. Also, believe it or not, but I’m drawing power from these crystals. I can feel it coursing through my veins. It’s making me sweat, actually. Damn! Are you guys hot?” Morgan said as she wiped under her neck.
“What are your powers, exactly? You know, besides possessing dogs to jump off cliffs,” Gaheris asked.
Rolling her eyes, Morgan divulged. “These concoctions I’m wearing around my bosom produce a variety of effects. The sand trap, as you already witnessed. I also have one that causes temporary blindness, one for paralysis, another for attracting hens for food, and another for convincing men they’re on fire.”
“Dear god,” Gaheris cringed.
“The rubies around my wrist were made from dragon tears. If I concentrate, I can conjure a scorching fire that burns scarlet red. I’m still a novice with my other abilities but I’m getting better. For instance, I once summoned a spell that gave me the strength to uproot a maple tree. Although I confess, I hate that enchantment. My back hurt like hell for days. I can cast illusions when people are at their worst. I can speak commands and understand almost every woodland creature if I put forth an effort. And unlike Merlin who can only see the future, I can peer into the past. That’s just for starters. Niviane says I have the potential to surpass even her,” Morgan boasted.
“Niviane is?” Gaheris said.
“The Lady of Lake Avalon. Over 400 years old and the greatest wizard the world’s ever seen. It’s who my mother’s been shipping me off to visit every summer for the past three years. Even Merlin can’t hold a candle to Niviane.”
“Is that why you killed my dog? Because of this inexplicable malice for Merlin the magician?” Gaheris barked.
“This again…” Morgan sighed.
“Silence!” Agravain hissed “Enemy afoot!”
With the jut of his chin, Agravain called attention to a horde of blue goblins feeding on the carcass of an ill-fated mule. They were three hundred yards out. These goblins had skinny bodies like skeletons with reflective fish scales, long pointy ears and razor sharp claws. Ten of them were feasting while six others were trying to mate.
Their options were limited. Goblins were vicious creatures that could turn hostile in an instant. They were more agile than spider monkeys so outrunning them in the web of downed branches and razor sharp vines was suicidal in and of itself. The brothers had the same thought. They didn’t have to discuss it. Years of fighting side-by-side rewarded them with that kind of telepathy. In unison, the brothers stepped out in front of their horses and prepared for battle.
“Wait!” Morgan smirked with anticipation. “Let me show off a little.”
Morgan spread out her arms and twirled her fingers towards two sinkholes of milky water flanking the sides of the trail. As she blew in through her lips with a whirling suction, a gust of wind howled, shaking the tree branches and causing a shower of crystals to rain down.
The goblins were spooked. At once, they stopped feeding and started rambling with a confused “hoobling” noise. They turned and spotted the humans. Flashing their fangs, the goblins set off running like apes, pounding the ground with their knuckles and flat boney feet.
Agravain drew his Roman broadswords while Gaheris stretched an arrow through his bow. Morgan whispered an incantation that spewed from her lips like a gust of white frosty air. The powdery air twirled and split into two threads, quickly flowing through her outstretched fingers and down into the sinkholes of milky turquoise water. After bubbling for two seconds, geysers erupted straight up, causing the brothers to recoil with fright.
Water rushed up and gathered to form a massive dome. It remained hardened for only a few seconds before streaming down and materializing into six fearsome warriors riding on the backs of winged stallions. These were enchanted horsemen controlled by Morgan’s own mind. They were solid and chiseled as if carved from dripping wet blue marble.
These magnificent horses neighed with a vibrating siren that sent shockwaves throughout the entire forest. With the fury of madmen, the warriors flew down the trail directly into the midst of the goblin. Morgan moved like a possessed dancer the way she shimmied her hips and twirled with the fingers of a puppet master.
The goblins screamed and shrieked as the warriors fought them with fearsome barbarity. Some managed to evade the low sweeping swords. These angry goblins continued on towards the trio and Agravain was more than willing to engage.
With a sword in both hands, Agravain dashed with bloodlust and excitement. The goblins attacked with sharp claws and powerful jaws, but Agravain was too swift, too nimble, too skilled. His swords had a mind of their own the way they found exposed limbs and hacked at joints. Hard thrusts and stabs were aimed at the core, and he didn’t hesitate for a second to mete out his own coup-de-grâce.
Meanwhile, arrows whistled by Agravain’s ear as a few goblins were sniped from a distance. Gaheris was picking them off one by one. His hand was steady, his eyes unblinking. Gaheris was a sentry, standing guard as Morgan continued her magical dance.
From his left, two screaming goblins sprung from the bushes in a loud shatter and a burst of blue dust. Gaheris calmly turned and shot the closest one in its face. He used his bow to parry the claws of the second goblin and countered by hip tossing it to the ground. Pinning the creature with a knee to its back, Gaheris promptly drove an arrow through the base of its skull. By the time he looked to check on his brother, it was over.
Dead goblins were strewn about. The winged horsemen had returned to puddles and Agravain was wiping sticky blood off of his swords with the tail end of his cloak. Morgan seemed pleased. She was glistening with sweat and panting with bated breath.
Brooding in the shadows, Morgan begins plotting her escape from Tintagel Castle. Under the watchful eye of Tristan, this is easier said than done. Then, a glimmer of hope shines through in the form of two teenage boys fresh from the battlefield.
Gaheris is an inquisitive playboy while Agravain’s an arrogant upstart who’s quick to draw his sword on even the slightest offense. The two make up Gawain’s little brothers and they’re the only ones Morgan can depend on to help her escape. Just be careful. There’s more to these brothers than meets the eye and the last thing you want to do is call them orphans. The castle lads find this out the hard way.
Chapter 3 – The Violent Orphans By Rock Kitaro
SIMS – “Crows” (Gaheris and Agravain’s theme)
It wasn’t the first time Morgan was laughed out of a room, but still, it was getting old. The blatant disrespect for authority was no longer cute and she knew it. For two days, Morgan kept to the darkest towers where no one could find her. The cackle of Tristan’s laughter haunted her. She couldn’t shake the sight of his cold blue eyes staring down at her wherever she went. It was maddening.
In the depths of her despair, she wrote poems and limericks, scribbling down all the harm she wished upon him. She made a list of all the times the lion had foiled her plans and designed a punishment for each incident.
For hours, she stared at the ceiling from the stone cold floor and fantasized about beasts feeding on his carcass. She dreamt about his lengthy crucifixion. She smirked wondering how loud he’d scream if he had to burn at the stake. Such thoughts were therapeutic. It seemed to be the only way to pacify the screaming Furies chained within the depths of her heart.
For two nights, Morgan sulked in the shadows of the royal banquet hall. It was here that the Council of Gold Clovers held their lavish feasts, joking and laughing as if they weren’t just at each other’s throats mere moments earlier. Musicians played their fiddles and flutes. Squires dazzled their maidens. Wine drizzled from beards and wives dined on gossip.
The tables were arranged in a U-shaped formation with the king’s platform raised directly in the center. King Mark, Duchess Igraine and house royalty lauded Tristan for his bravery. Morgan watched it all with her back against the wall, glaring with torchlight blazing from her eyes. Their laughter made her sick. Their smiles made her snarl. She remembered a hundred dirty old men laughing at her, how Tristan called her insolent and mistempered.
She crossed her arms and grumbled, “You want mistempered? I’ll give you mistempered.”
While everyone was asleep, Morgan confined herself to one of the storage closets. Her tiny book of spells and potions were written with coded languages and symbols, made legible only to those trained in the arts of Lake Avalon. For hours, Morgan would grind crystals and brew concoctions in a black cauldron. She poured these shiny potions into small milky glass vials, tiny enough to fit into the pockets of dagger sleeves she planned to strap over her shoulder like a bandolier. If the men weren’t willing to save Gawain, Morgan was prepared to do it herself.
The third night…
It was the third night since Morgan was humiliated in front of the Council of Gold Clovers. It’s been three days since she saw the vision of Gawain chained in a ship. It was the final night of feasting, after which, the lords were scheduled to depart in the morning and return to their domains.
Again, Morgan stationed herself in the solace of the shadows. Then the giant doors of the banquet hall opened. The herald announced a new visitor. No one was paying attention. The music and revelry was so loud that no one heard.
“From the Kingdom of Lothian and Orkney, I give you Duke Tiburne and his companions, Gaheris and Agravain!” announced the herald.
A smile slowly surfaced for the first time in so long that Morgan’s cheeks began to hurt. The loud crash of shattered wood got everyone’s attention. King Mark’s longtime herald was a large man, well over three hundred pounds. And yet, a fourteen-year-old pup of a lad was now standing over him, having just broken a chair across the herald’s back.
“That’s not how you say my name, you idiot. It’s Agra-vain. I’d commit it to memory if I were you.”
“Vain, you say? You have it right!” Jonah of Mon scolded.
Agravain looked the baron up and down before walking on, as if he didn’t have time to address every shit stain he happened to come across.
Here, we’re introduced to the prestigious King Mark of Tintagel. Morgan interrupts his annual conference, begging the king to send an emissary north to rescue Gawain. While King Mark is sympathetic, there’s one person who stands in Morgan’s way.
23-year-old Tristan is the Champion of Cornwall, the strongest fighter in the kingdom and an unspoken big brother to the youngsters. In Tristan’s own words, “I’ll not risk the lives of my men based on the whims of a mistempered brat playing at alchemy!”
Of course, Tristan should have known better. As if Morgan’s about to accept “no” for an answer.
Chapter 2 – The Lion of Dumnonia by Rock Kitaro
“Aria” by Susumu Hirasawa –
“YOU, SIR, ARE A COWARD!”
“I DARE YOU TO SAY THAT AGAIN!”
“EVERYONE SIT DOWN! NOW!”
“YOU CAN’T REASON WITH THESE MEN! THEY’RE NO BETTER THAN ANTS WITHOUT A CAUSE!”
“I GOT YOUR CAUSE!”
“ENOUGH!!!”
All class and decorum went out the window hours ago. Spit flew from beards and bugling eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their skulls. Ambassadors from over thirty volatile kingdoms had convened at Tintagel Castle. It was the final week of August. For eight years, this “Council of Gold Clovers” congregated in an annual attempt to resolve differences with diplomacy. With the honorable King Mark presiding, the initiative was supposed to spark hope for a greater future.
However, as of late, the council had turned into nothing less than a competition of who could talk the loudest. Empty words and false promises were passed out like playing cards in a pub. Their resolutions were always unrealistic and there was a running joke that the only reason why people kept coming back was to gorge themselves on the food.
The throne room was large enough to shelter an army of 2,000, yet for some reason it felt congested. Over 150 disgruntled knights, barons, and chancellors had broken from their assigned tables and were now separated in conspiring huddles as if anarchy was in the works.
The day started with everyone dressed in their second-best suits, but by noon, they all looked like sweaty peasants from having stripped off their outer garments. Collars and capes of all colors were discarded like dismantled decorations. Spilt wine lined cracks of the floor. Daggers were driven through tables. It was as if a tornado had ripped through the room and the look on King Mark’s face was priceless.
Mark, the King of Tintagel, just sat there on his gold throne with his head held up by his fists. The black banners hanging above his dais displayed the sigil of fifteen gold coins in an upside-down triangle.
Four knights in full metal armor stood behind the king with their hands resting on the pommel of massive swords. Sixteen servants waited in the wings, ready to tend to the king’s every need. Unfortunately, what the king really needed was some sense of civility, not these animals looking to exert their dominance.
In spite of his position and the veneration bestowed upon him, King Mark’s appearance was far from impressive. He was nearing fifty, shorter than most with a potbelly, bristly hair, and a thick black beard that concealed whether he was smiling or not. Perhaps King Mark’s most endearing feature was his sympathetic gray eyes. He was relatively soft-spoken and hardly yelled, even on the battlefield.
To his left was an empty chair reserved for his wife. However, the queen passed away decades ago and King Mark had yet to remarry. The chair to his right was occupied by the Lord Chamberlain, Sir Cador, a no-nonsense taskmaster. Cador was also Duchess Igraine’s cousin by blood and a strict but doting father to the sixteen-year-old Constantine.
The bickering was unbecoming but everyone knew the topic of discussion would produce such reactions. The main grievance on the tip of everyone’s tongue was the ceaseless terror by the Hibernians.
Unlike Britannia, which was fractious and split with a myriad of formidable warlords, Hibernia was a singular powerhouse of unified clans just beyond the Celtic Sea. It was home to some of the deadliest warriors the world has ever seen. She was a seafaring nation, ruled by a matriarch whose fame and reputation was almost revered and worshiped as the pharaohs of old.
Her name was Iseult, Queen of Hibernia. She benefited from the division and strife amongst the British, fighting for the kingdoms that paid the most. In her web of lies, Iseult orchestrated a number of political murders and framed rival generals, effectively pitting them against each other like pawns on a chessboard. The blood money was steady revenue that made Queen Iseult one of the wealthiest women in the world. She’d promise loyalty and discretion but at heart, the Hibernians were loyal only to Hibernia.
During Iseult’s near thirty-year reign, Cornwall has remained Hibernia’s main rival. Back in the day, King Mark had some powerful allies on his side. Big names like High King Uther, Duke Gorlois, King Leodegrance and even the sorcerer Merlin. But due to a series of unfortunate events, Duke Gorlois was murdered, Uther died, Merlin parted ways, and Leodegrance had to defend own kingdom against legions from an usurping King Vortigern.
Hoping to capitalize on the chaos, Queen Iseult launched a massive siege upon Tintagel Castle. King Mark prevailed in his defense but it cost him dearly. Two thirds of his army was devastated and thousands of villagers loss their homes in the crossfire.
That was nearly sixteen years ago. Queen Iseult’s hatred never faded. Systematically, she’d send hunters across the sea to kidnap sons and daughters from indiscriminate villages. They were brought back to Hibernia and forced to slave labor.
Bereaved parents fell to their hands and knees begging the courts to do something, anything to bring back their children. It was a reoccurring nightmare. To date, all sixteen rescue attempts were crushed at sea. The one vessel that managed to reach Hibernia’s shores fell prey to a massacre that was so barbaric it was omitted from the scrolls.
Thus, the Council of Gold Clovers debated. They argued. They pointed fingers and accused one another of cowardice.
“Are your knights not brave enough?”
“Where’s your courage?”
“Where were you when my daughter was swept off in the night!?”
“Insolent cur!”
“Arrogant knave!”
“I dare you to say that again!”
“You sir, have no class!”
“To hell with you and your antiquated, highborn sensibilities!”
“Let’s see your tongue wag after I’ve split it with my ax!”
“I have five arrows thirsting for your blood!”
“Then draw!”
“Don’t tempt me!”
“LET’S HAVE IT!”
It was all the same with no end in sight. Duke Guinea slammed his fist on the table every time he felt someone was “missing the point.” The loud bang caused Sir Cador’s shoulders to jerk forward like a pit bull on a leash. King Mark would notice and smirk. The mild amusement was about the only perk King Mark derived from the meetings.
An unexpected knock began to crawl over the overlapping conversations. Initially, no one heard it but its persistence began to annoy the competing speakers. The double doors croaked open.
To the king, Morgan was a sight for sore eyes. As soon as he spotted her in that cotton pink dress he was immediately filled with joy. The cluster of old men glowered down at her as she weaved her way to the throne. She wanted to present herself as a young lady should, humble and modest. But no matter what, she couldn’t stop herself grimacing at the nauseating stench of wine and sweat.
Morgan le Fay has a vision. In the middle of a storm, she sees Gawain shackled and bound aboard a slave ship. At last, he’s coming back to Britannia. It’s been four years since she lost him and now she wants him back. But what can a teenage brat known for her mischief do? Who will believe her after all the craps she’s pulled in the past?
PVRIS – Chandelier (Sia Cover)
Chapter 1 – The Vision By Rock Kitaro
“It feels like I’m sinking. There’s a swarm of bees in my stomach. The trickle in my ear is nauseating and for some reason these stupid flashes of light blur the lines every time I come close to making something out. Honestly… It’s all beginning to get very aggravating.”
…
A tempest unleashed hell over the vast turbulent seas. It should have been pitch black, but blinding cracks of lightning stretched as veins for miles. Gale force winds howled like demented ghosts over the abyss. Stone-black waves with white crests moved like snowcapped mountains swaying in restless aim. Torrential rains made visibility poor and the dark clouds appeared to be getting closer and closer as if to smother the earth in her sleep.
It was madness to be caught in such hazard, and yet, there! Cruising down the valley of two massive waves was a single frigate carrying the fate of over seventy souls.
A brave crew of twelve wrestled with the riggings. A bearded captain and his second-mate manned the rudder from the wheel deck. They were approaching the Isle of Man, a massive iceberg of an island responsible for more shipwrecks than serpents or sorcery. Navigating through the veils of heavy rain in the middle of the night should have been next to impossible. Yet, there they were.
Prayers whispered below deck as teeth rattled and toes curled. Deafening blasts of thunder kept everyone wide awake. No one wanted to be asleep should the ship capsize or ram against any number of protruding rocks that breached the surface like siege defenses. Falling overboard or being swept out to sea spelled instant death. It didn’t matter if they held hands or clung to floating chunks of wood. In this deluge, drowning was inevitable.
There was royalty on board, a princess accompanied by three of her maidens. Oddly enough, while the maidens trembled with trepidation, the princess remained poised with a hardened sense of determination. She wasn’t about to let herself drown. Even if the ship did sink, there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that she’d find some way to survive. It’d make for a good story and maybe even convince her people that she was more than just some dainty little girl.
Out in the main hold, disgruntled soldiers with broad shoulders and thick beards sat with their backs against the wall. They spat and grumbled all sorts of blasphemies, begging for the worst to be over. Cold water leaked through the cracks, extinguishing all hopes of lighting fires. It was so dark that they could barely see the hands before their eyes. Tormented horses neighed as they struggled to break free. Someone needed to calm them down but no one was willing to risk getting crushed.
And there, past the horses, past the sacks of grain, and gold, and shields, and armor…was a single slave, shackled and chained upside down to the ceiling as if he posed a formidable threat to his masters. Every time the ship jerked, his shoulders would bang against the wooden hull, causing him to wince with intense pain but he never screamed. Nor did he cry out for mercy or ask for help. He was so young, but strong and full of pride that he kept buried deep down inside.
This young slave was dressed like a soldier but marked by a patch of mustard brushed across the chest of his tunic. After slamming against the hull once more, the slave finally opened his eyes. His long hair was brown and curly like that of a Saxon. His skin was olive as if he hailed from the Italian peninsula but those eyes… In his eyes she saw a myriad of herbal hues, mostly jade with a burst of auburn.
Water dripped to his face but the young man didn’t blink. He peered through the cracks, slowly hypnotized by rolling clouds that made it seem as if the ship was already submerged. Lightning struck. He saw it and immediately felt the boom of thunder rattling his core, detonating a migraine he tried so desperately to shake.
It was then that hopelessness crept in. Whatever dignity or confidence once engrained in this young man had deteriorated to the point that he could only think of one thing, one person, a single source of bliss that carried him far away from the pain and sadness. As his jaw slacked and the cool air tickled his parched throat, the young man whispered.
Morgan – Age 17: Ever since she was a kid, Morgana or Morgan has had magical powers, abilities that no one could ever understand. Being the youngest daughter of Duke Gorlois and Duchess Igraine, she was expected to grow up a lady of the court but her heart was too wild for all that. Rebellious, spiteful, and stubborn, the only one who seemed to accept and appreciate Morgan was Gawain.
When the Hibernians abducted Gawain, they essentially stole one of the few precious things she could say she loved about her childhood. With each day that passed without him, Morgan’s hatred and resentment grew. Soon after, she was shipped off to Lake Avalon where she was trained to master her powers under the tutelage of Vivian. There, she learned how to speak to animals, cast spells, summon fire, and cook up an array of concoctions. Her potential as an enchantress surpassed Vivian herself when she demonstrated an unbridled ability to peer into the past.
Morgan is known for her dazzling purple eyes, dark hair, and near permanent resting bitch-face. She has a personal Percheron horse named Vebby and she’s the younger sister to the Lady Elaine and the Queen Morgaus. Also, Morgan is loud. Like…really loud. She can’t help yelling when she speaks.
Gawain – Age 17: In a dark world where nearly every kingdom is plagued by death and destruction, everyone seems to think the virtuous Gawain will one day be pivotal in restoring peace and prosperity to Britannia. This burden…it lands heavy on the lad.
You see, when Gawain was nine, Duke Gorlois convinced his eldest daughter Morgaus to adopt Gawain and his little brothers, Gaheris and Agravain. While she was initially appalled by the thought of it, one glance at the three boys instantly melted her heart. Gawain knows how fortunate he is and it’s been a chip on his shoulder ever since. No matter what, he has to do the right thing, to honor Duke Gorlois and protect the nation of Cornwall.
That’s easier said than done when you have two little brothers who can’t seem to stay out of trouble. And then there’s Morgan. Even though Gawain was adopted into the family, a special bond cultivates between the two. At the age of 13, Gawain was abducted by the Hibernians and forced into a life of slave labor. And it seems, even the Hibernians can’t help but find something special about Gawain. It doesn’t take long for Princess Isolde to take Gawain as one of her personal attendants.
Princess Isolde – Age 21: Isolde of Hibernia has the type of smile in which you’d never know whether she was impressed or just mocking you. With crystal blue eyes and golden blonde hair that beamed like rays in a forest, Isolde’s beauty was famous far and wide. As the only daughter of the all-powerful Queen Iseult, Isolde was born into a life of luxury, surrounded by some of the fiercest warriors the world’s ever seen. Her confidence is compounded by her own skill as negotiator. She’s used to getting what she wants. Also, she’s somewhat of a masochist.
Tristan – Age 23: The Champion of Cornwall, the Lion of Dumnonia, Tristan has many names and they’re all well deserved. Not only is he King Mark’s favorite, he’s the strongest warrior Tintagel Castle has ever seen. Golden haired and handsome, Tristan is doted on by all the ladies. However, he has the eyes of someone who’s stared death in the face one too many times. As a child, he lost his parents to the Hibernians during one of their many raids.
Ever since Gawain and Morgan were children, Tristan has taken on the big brother role even though no one’s asked him to. Thus, Tristan has always been a thorn in Morgan’s side, always getting in the way of her plans, thwarting her plots. It seems Tristan is just about the only one who isn’t afraid to put Morgan in her place. And of course, unbeknownst to Tristan, the battle isn’t over until Morgan says it is.
Gaheris – Age 15:Younger brother to Gawain and Prince to Queen Morgaus and King Lot of Lothian and Orkney. Gaheris is the cool, level-headed brother who will one day grow up and become the most handsome knight in all of Britannia, a Casanova of sorts who’s also a sharp-shooter with the bow.
Gaheris’s good looks obviously draws a lot of envy from other men, but no one is dumb enough to come at him with feared swordsmen like Gawain and Agravain by his side. And aside from that, Gaheris is a natural born skeptic who hardly ever takes things at face value. When he was younger, Morgan possessed his dog to drive it off a cliff. Ever since then, Gaheris has doubted her motives. Even when she’s telling the truth, Gaheris knows she’s only telling enough of the truth for it to still remain a secret.
Agravain – Age 14: Youngest brother to Gawain and Gaheris, Agravain prodigy swordsmen and natural born athlete. Impulsive and prone to fights, Agravain is the type to throw-down now and ask a few question later. Thankfully, Gaheris is always there to keep him on a leash. Agravain knows this and doesn’t mind.
Everyone’s heard of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. But what if I told you that before they were the shining examples of chivalry and virtue…they were a bunch of hot-blooded youths ready to sword-up and throw down with the best of them. And in a dark world where nearly every kingdom is plagued with death and destruction, Britannia is fertile to give birth to legends.
17-year-old Morgan le Fay is strong-willed enchantress who knows she’s destined for greatness but feels shackled by the expectations of being borne a lady of the court.
Her only friend in the world is the self-sacrificing, Gawain, an adopted prince who everyone seems to think will be the next Spartacus. However, four years earlier Gawain was abducted and enslaved by Hibernians, the sworn enemy of Cornwall.
Spurred by a prophetic vision, Morgan defies the king and treks into enemy territory to get him back no matter the cost and she’s not alone. She tricks Gawain’s little brothers the violent Agravain and pretty boy Gaheris into coming along. And Tristan, the Champion of Cornwall, is about ready to wring her neck when he finds out she escapes the palace.
After clashing with the likes of Vikings and conniving kings, the upstarts finally rescue their prize but the battle was far from over. Morgan’s world comes crashing down when it appears that Gawain has fallen for one of his captors, the beautiful Princess Isolde.
Consumed by rage and betrayed by her own magic, Morgan unleashes a treacherous scheme that sends Cornwall headlong into the throes of war. And in spite of all her deceit, designs, and destruction, Gawain still loves her. His duty as an older brother and heir to the throne demands he hold her accountable. In the end, Gawain and Morgan come to the same conclusion. If they can’t live with each other, one of them has to die.
Stage In The Sky 