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

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

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

Chapter 18 - Generations WLOPartwork by WLOP for his creative series

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morrow, mother!”

“Good morrow, my dove.”

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

“Bow before the queen!” Sir Maven shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see. So you’ve tried.”

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

“Neither can I,” said the queen.

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

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

The Knights with No Lord: Chapter 13 – Lions and Wolves (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 2, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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

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.

“You bastard. DON’T THINK YOU’VE WON!” Pellinore screamed.

…

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.

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: Chapter 5 – Companions (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on September 7, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords, online stories, Original Stories. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Encroaching north into enemy territory, Morgan, Gaheris, and Agravain think 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.

Chapter 5 - Companions

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.

“Not bad,” she said with pride.

– Click to Continue Reading

Knight with No Lords: Chapter 2 – The Lion of Dumnonia (Fantasy Teen Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 17, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords, Original Stories, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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 - Lion
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.

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