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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
Posted in: About the Author. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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 21 – Betrayal (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 3, 2019
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In the aftermath of the massacre, Tristan and Isolde are hunted by nearly every sword in the kingdom. Gawain tries to make sense of it all and finally he gets his answers. Morgan tells him of the vision.

Chapter 21 - Betrayal

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 21 – Betrayal
By Rock Kitaro

Dawn came with an air of tension. The overcast of a storm lingered and a malevolent gale howled through the streets. The most aggressive manhunt the country’s ever seen was underway as desensitized soldiers scoured the city in search for the traitorous Tristan and Isolde.

The king’s retainers in the neighboring lands of Devonshire, Dorset, and Somerset were put on high alert. Tristan and Isolde were to be considered an enemy of the state. Their capture and return was paramount, an issue of life and death, peace and war.

Pellinore wasn’t a vassal of Tintagel. He didn’t owe the country or King Mark anything. Yet, he immediately set out to Sewellen’s Chest and scrounged up all the ruffians who owed him money. They raided brothels and gaming dens, kicking in doors and overturning beds looking for the star-crossed lovers. Anyone who gave them trouble was rewarded with Pellinore’s boot up their ass.

Behind the closed doors of a chapel, Queen Iseult was all fire and brimstone as she barraged King Mark with the burden of blame and betrayal. She threatened to wage the bloodiest war the world had ever seen if she didn’t get her daughter back. King Mark did his best to assure her he was doing everything that could be done. He also reminded her that the betrayal struck both ways.

The bodies of Sir Ioness, Sir Ewangish, and Sir Cador were cleaned, fully clothed, and resting in the finest caskets worthy of their valor. The Duchess Igraine wept over Sir Cador’s casket, her last living cousin. A red-faced Constantine wept bitterly but stood dignified as his father would have wanted. Sir Cador raised Constantine to be a good man. His harsh discipline and relentless reproof was evident. It’s in light of these tragic and significant losses, King Mark had no choice but to disregard his affections for Tristan. This was treason. If found, Tristan would not be spared capital punishment.

Inside the main citadel, strife prevailed as the lords and generals engaged in fiery debates about what was to be done. Over 200 men of authority convened in the King Mark’s court. Fingers were pointed. Accusations slurred. A revolt was on the rise with many fearing Tristan would rally men who were more loyal to him than the crown.

Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain sat quietly at a table on the outskirts of the throne room. They were forbidden from aiding in the search, a point made clear following a stern lecture from their adoptive father King Lot. This of course came after Queen Morgaus noticed the deep grudge, the paint painted in Gaheris’s squinty-eyed scowl.

The brothers were armed with their weapons, breastplates and shoulder pads. Gawain’s burning gaze was fixed in place as he replayed every interaction he witnessed between Tristan and Isolde, trying to make sense of things, wondering what they could have possibly been thinking. Tristan was the most levelheaded man Gawain knew. He wouldn’t have let himself commit treason so easily. Something must have happened. It’s the only way. But what?

Gaheris and Agravain watched with disgust as the older men bickered. Meanwhile, the Hibernians showed a considerable amount of restraint. Gathered near the exit, sixteen Hibernian knights huddled around Algayre and Sir Maven. Gaheris and Agravain noticed their eerie silence. It wasn’t just silence. It was confidence. No matter how impressive their fighting ability was, the Hibernians were still severely out numbered. So why on earth were they so confident?

Algayre’s black beetle eyes watched Gawain. He could tell Gawain was hard at work solving riddles in his head. So badly, the warlock Algayre wanted to crack it open and let all the secrets come spilling out.

“I DARE YOU TO SAY THAT AGAIN!” shouted Bruno.

“Are you not Tristan’s closest friend? How can we trust you?” Sir Blajan shouted.

Bruno promptly replied by knocking Sir Blajan on his back. A skirmish broke out between Bruno’s clique and Blajan’s. The elderly Sir Ekner hobbled in and struggled to regain order but his voice was drown out in the ruckus. Meanwhile, the Hibernians chuckled at the sight. Their smug attitudes made Agravain squint with displeasure.

“Enough with this sitting around crap!” Agravain said as he propped up from his seat and started for the exit.

Gawain and Gaheris didn’t protest. They followed. And in a mental conversations that only brothers could have, all three came to the conclusion, “we have to find Tristan.”

Just as the light from the opening doors touched Gawain’s face, a long slender hand grabbed him by the collar.

“This is the witch’s doing. You know it to be true,” Algayre hissed.

“I strongly urge you remove your hand,” Gawain growled.

“I will open her neck with my teeth!”

Gawain shoved him into the door. The hard knock got everyone’s attention.

“Over my dead body,” Gawain warned.

“Was hoping you’d say that, street rat.”

THUMP!

Agravain had whipped up one of Algayre’s own daggers and pinned it to the door just inches from Algayre’s thin sideburns.

“Problem?” Agravain asked.

“Oye! None of that! You lads fan out and find Tristan. Go on! Out!” Sir Ekner shouted.

Gaheris pulled Gawain away by his breastplate as Algayre just nodded with a creepy grin.

“That’s right, boy.” Algayre taunted. “Find him. Find him, before I find the girl. And you know what I do to little toys you try keep to yourself.”

“OVER MY DEAD BODY!” Gawain shouted.

Toothless Kersey and five of his lancer friends were passing through when they helped Gaheris pull away an unhinged Gawain.

Agravain stayed where he was, glaring at Algayre. He jerked forward and spit down on Algayre’s boots. Algayre’s bug eyes widened with an insane smile. As Agravain joined the group, Algayre followed until he was just through the doors. He watched the young restless teens as they stormed up the stairs at the end of the hallway, like they were all just a bunch of rabid young cubs who needed to be put down as soon as possible.

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

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 26, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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 8 – Cascades (Historical Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on September 28, 2018
Posted in: About the Author. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

There’s a lot of catching up to do. Gawain learns 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.

Chapter 8 - Cascades - Jorge BarredaPhoto 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.”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 7 – The Trossachs (Fantasy Fiction)

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

Fight! Battle breaks out as an angry horde of blue-painted Vikings pursue Gawain and Isolde through the thick of the woods. It’s an action-packed chapter where Gawain shows off his superior swordplay and Tristan, his Herculean strength. At last, Morgan and Gawain are reunited. And while it should be a joyous occasion…

Chapter 7- The Trossachs

Chapter 7 – The Trossachs
By Rock Kitaro

Racing for their lives, Gawain, Isolde, and the Hibernians scraped through wet leafy branches. A flood of furious Picts chased Isolde’s group through the wet woodlands of the Trossach. Three minutes felt like an hour. Isolde rode at the forefront with Gawain and Sir Ewangish right behind her. Five knights assisted from the rear but one of them was fading out from blood loss to an arrow wound.

King Drest’s four elite warriors in blue chalky paint were leading the charge and they were closing in. If Isolde had hesitated in deciding which path to take, the Picts would’ve overwhelmed them in less than ten seconds. It wasn’t until Gawain narrowly dodged his third low hanging vine that he realized Isolde had no idea where she was going. She was slowing down with doubt sinking in.

“YAH!” Gawain yelled as he spurred with intense fervor.

Gawain quickly sped up and took the lead. He wasn’t familiar with the Trossach woodlands but he was calm and collected, wise enough to follow the flow of water to avoid getting stuck at the dead end from some rising ground. The terrain fluctuated with gorges, steep hills, and drop-off cliffs. Rising tree roots could snag a horse’s hoof at any moment and the shallow ponds were actually veiled sinkholes. Dense vegetation made visibility poor. He could barely see beyond the sharp turns. Gawain knew it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.

He spotted a glimmer of sunshine and followed the light. Within seconds, Gawain’s company emerged from the thick woods and into a clearing. It was a vast open meadow in the middle of the forest, an oasis of rich green grass and sunflowers.

Halfway across the meadow, another force came charging out of the tree line at full speed. These six newcomers were all suited in black armor with their leader wearing a flashy red scarf flowing from his neck. Gripped with fear, Gawain pulled on his reins for an abrupt stop. Princess Isolde and Ewangish struggled to do the same.

Pellinore raised his helmet visor and examined Gawain with the same bloodthirsty stare from the day they first met. They locked eyes for less than a second but time slowed as they gradually began to recognize each other. Pellinore was so impressive. His long serrated claymore was drawn and ready to carve into flesh. It wasn’t until Gawain noticed the pink vertical scar over Pellinore’s left eye that he was certain.

“Pellinore?!” Gawain shouted.

“HA! Found him!” Pellinore slurred with a thick wad of flying spit.

“Help us! Picts!” Gawain begged, pointing over his shoulders.

Pellinore looked and was instantly mesmerized by the boldness in Isolde’s sky blue eyes.

“Come on, boys! Let’s play!”

With that, the Brood of the Black Bloods stormed the Picts head on.

“You know this rabble?” Sir Ewangish asked.

“I believe so,” Gawain said, breathing hard but smiling with relief.

“Away!” the princess ordered.

Pellinore gripped his claymore with both hands as he charged between two of the blue elite warriors. Sweeping in a straight line, from left to right, Pellinore sliced through the pair with a powerful swing. The disemboweled bodies of his victims fell from their horses and Pellinore was just getting started.

Kanish, Balto, Jeremy, Dantry, and Barxy followed Pellinore to corral the Picts in an all-out melee. It was brutal. The six mercenaries fought like a well-oiled machine. Balto would wound a man and Kanish would follow up for the kill. Barxy was a bear the way he leapt from his horse to drag two soldiers down.

Jeremy and Dantry followed Pellinore into the thick of the forest. The Picts were losing men at a rapid pace and broke from a clustered group to spread out. Pellinore dismounted and gave chase.

Like a wolf on the prowl, he leaped over tree roots and stumps without skipping a beat. His intense gaze remained focused on the prey. And when Pellinore closed in, he threw everything he had into each swing, severing through sword, armor, flesh and bone. Jeremy and Dantry merely followed to put Pellinore’s victims out of their misery.

Isolde, Gawain, Ewangish and the four Hibernian knights continued south through the Trossachs. The woods were so dense. A web of slender but sturdy trees combed through their group and caused them to fan out. The enemy was coming from every direction and soon, the princess found herself surrounded with no ally in sight.

Suddenly, three wild-haired Picts came pouncing from the trees. They startled Isolde’s horse, causing it to rear up high in the air. She screamed and nearly had a heart attack, hanging on for dear life. The Picts groped and clawed at her cape, latching on to pull her down. Then, a flash of gold came dashing by.

Tristan, with his blond hair and rippling muscles came charging out of the bushes. He shattered a log over one savage. The remaining two jumped on his back, but Trisan easily hurled one to the ground and rammed his back against a boulder to crush the other.

Isolde’s horse was still bucking with fright when Tristan hurried over and grabbed the reins. He didn’t whisper or click his tongue to calm it down. He simply glared into the horse’s eyes with the snarl of someone who wasn’t opposed to adding horse meat to the menu. Needless to say, the horse calmed down.

The Knights with No Lords (Fantasy Teen Fiction) – Coming Soon

Posted by Rock Kitaro on July 23, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords, online stories, Original Stories. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Knights with no lords 4

The Knights with No Lords

By Rock Kitaro

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.

Chapters Coming this August!