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

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

Chapter 25 - The Greatest Escape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“AHHHHHH!!!!” she screamed.

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

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

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

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 27, 2018
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In the dead of the night, a resounding bell wakes the castle. A massacre has taken place. Blood and bodies are strewn about. And when everyone finds out that the killer is one of their own…all bets are off. Peace talks go out the window and everyone’s calling for war.

Chapter 20 - Break Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OYE! He’s with us,” shouted Barxy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hear, hear!” Jeremy shouted.

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

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

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

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

“Coming from the banquet?” he asked.

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

“Giddy?” Pellinore doubted with a raised brow.

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

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

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

“Poppycock!” Barxy snapped.

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

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

“ON WITH IT THEN!” Pellinore shouted.

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

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

“I’m not crazy,” Gawain mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Remove your hand, sir,” Gawain warned.

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

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

“Hit him, Gawain!” said Barxy.

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

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

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

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

“OH!!!”

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

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

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 17 – The Elusive White Stag (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Morgan has made up her mind to kill Princess Isolde. But how? In the depths of her angst and dark desire she hatches a plan. Even if the consequences pit two warring kingdoms against each other and thousands perish in the fire, Morgan will have her way. Isolde must die.

Chapter 17 - The Elusive White Stag

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 17- The Elusive White Stag
By Rock Kitaro

The next morning, Morgan woke up with darkness in her heart. Her eyelids opened without any drag or drowsiness in her, just an eerie clarity as if she had been awake for hours.

She sat up and scanned the room. Her mother was sleeping on her pillow. Elaine was at her left while Annaliese, Fierva, and Giselle slept on feather beds that were brought in.

Dusk came with thick clouds casting a blue tint over the castle. Silently, she slipped out of bed and put on her black cloak of wool, before walking to the mirror and combing her fingers through her dark hair, glowering at herself with unblinking contempt. Then, carefully she picked up the enchanted red ruby jewels and wrapped them around her right wrist, fastening them tight with twine.

The hallway outside her bedroom was quiet. The wall-mounted torches had fizzled and there was barely enough light for her see the doorframes and nooks. The guards were still standing, but their eyes were closed, snoring from the pit of their throats. And just across the hallway, sleeping with their backs against the wall were Gawain and his little brother Agravain.

The sight of Gawain in a blissful slumber made Morgan twitch into a scowl. A rush of heat immediately spread up from her chest and burned in her cheeks. The right side of Agravain’s face was resting against Gawain’s shoulder while Gawain’s chin was nestled over Agravain’s bowl-cut hair.

Morgan reached out like a talon ready to rip at Gawain’s face but stopped just as the tips of her fingers touched the curls of his bangs. Her hand moved closer to his neck. She could feel his breath. Her cheeks quivered as an internal battle waged within.

Abruptly she pulled back and stood up straight. The scowl faded. Her purple eyes gazed upon Gawain with the sudden realization that he was simply beneath her. With bated breath, Morgan put on the hood of her cloak and hurried down the hall, disappearing down the shadows of the spiral staircase.

…

The blue fog had enveloped and spread throughout Chadwyck Forest. The sun was peeked over the horizon but thick rainclouds extended the twilight and pushed back the morning light. Birds huddled on swaying branches. Dew, like glistening pearls blanketed the forest floor, making it soft and slippery

The Lion of Dumnonia was on the prowl. In stealth, Tristan held steady the nock of a single arrow pulled within his longbow. He had anticipated a blue day and as such, Tristan was wearing a pale blue tunic with light brown pants. A dagger was holstered on his waist and there were twelve arrows in his quiver, twelve arrows he carved himself. His leather boots had thin soles, perfect for feeling the soil beneath his feet, careful to avoid snapping any sticks or twigs.

His cold blue eyes were locked with the focus of an apex predator. A fly landed on his cheek and he didn’t react in the slightest. His entire body seemed to glide through the forest in a slow controlled pace. A long eared owl was watching him. Following him. Studying him.

Keeping low, Tristan entered a narrow groove in the forest. A herd of fallows was just beyond the ridgeline but Tristan wasn’t hunting fallows. Tristan was chasing a legend, a myth that only those who had seen dragons and mermaids would be foolish enough to believe. Tristan was searching for the elusive white stag.

According to legends, the white stag was said to appear when the hunter had committed some grave sin and no one but the sinner knew what he had done. It was also said that when a white stag appeared, it was a signal for great tidings in a knight’s quest.

Tristan didn’t care about legends or contradicting superstitions. He’d been festering ever since the Hibernians landed at the Port of Talons. He knew everyone suspected he was just some mindless lapdog, loyal and obedient to the king’s every whim. But that’s only because Tristan respected the importance of discretion.

In truth, Tristan was furious. He clashed with King Mark behind closed doors for more hours than the king had spoken with his own council. Tristan reminded the king of what Morholt did to his parents and his entire village. Tristan reminded the king of old oaths to never trust the Hibernians, to help him avenge his parents. Watching his king break bread with the enemy was sickening. And now that King Mark intended to wed one of them, Tristan didn’t know what to do with himself.

Thus, Tristan came to Chadwyck Forest with every intention to bathe in the blood a white stag. The muscles in his forearms and shoulders began to burn as he kept the bow armed, ready to fire on impulse. His stern gaze scanned the blue forest, penetrating branches of green and brown in search of any flash of white.

Suddenly, there was a crack of splintering wood. A branch snapped. His eyes darted left. There was a glimmer of white. Tristan raised his bow and fired. Almost as soon as he did, a paralyzing fear gripped at his lungs. He had just shot Princess Isolde.

“ARE YOU INSANE!?” she screamed.

Princess Isolde was standing on higher ground next to a tree with massive roots. She was wearing a regal white dress with green trimmings and knee-high traveling boots. Tristan’s arrow had sailed between her legs and snagged the tree behind her, pinning her gown to the trunk.

Tristan squinted with disappointment as Isolde pulled and tugged at the arrow. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get free. Meanwhile, Tristan turned around and scanned the clearing. The fallows were gone. Even the owl had flown off. If there was a white stag in the vicinity, he had no doubt Isolde’s screaming just scared it away.

“Christ! Why can’t I get this?!” Isolde complained as she tugged at the arrow with all her strength.

Tristan approached and gave the arrow a quick yank. The gown was free. Isolde lost her balance and fell from the ridge. Tristan calmly caught her in one arm and set her upright.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“You just stuck me with an arrow!” she shouted.

“Correction. I struck your dress. I’ll ask again. What are you doing here?”

Isolde scoffed. She was about to storm off before Tristan’s big beefy hands latched onto her arm. He thought he was being gentle, but to Isolde it felt like a bear trap snagged her.

“I said, what are you…”

Before he could finish, Isolde began smacking him with tight close-fisted punches. By the seventh blow, Tristan grabbed her wrist and turned her around.

“As I was saying. What are you…”

“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!” she screamed. “You’re not even a knight. How dare you lay a single finger on me. How dare you! I’m a princess!”

“Then act like one!” Tristan growled in her ear.

“Insolent knave! I’ll see you flung for the cliffs for this!”

“Well since you put it like that, I might as well kill you now and blame it on some wild beast,” Tristan snarled.

“At least you’d be telling the truth. Because you are a wild beast, you big ugly brute! There’s no sort of gentleman in you. No gentleman at all! LET ME GO!”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 15 – Crush (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 16, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan & Isolde…a match made in heaven. News of their wedding spreads but sadly, it’s a bit premature.

Chapter 15 - Crush - WLOPartwork by WLOP for his creative series

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 15 – Crush
By Rock Kitaro

“Marriage?”

“Yes. Is it truly so surprising?” Isolde chuckled. “Political marriages date back for centuries. You’ll probably be bound to one yourself someday. To keep the hounds at bay, the belligerents in line, a show of unity in which both factions have a vested interest for the sake of diplomacy. A preemptive strike to conflicts without the common side effect of bloodshed and mayhem. It’s ideal, really.”

It was a hazy day. The same as before, except it was getting colder as autumn said goodbye. Gawain and Princess Isolde were alone on the breezeway three stories up in the Western Ward. From their position they could see the training grounds below. There were more soldiers than usual. Apparently everyone had the same idea, to shake off their anxieties through the burn of rigorous exercise.

While Constantine and Gaheris practiced their archery, Pellinore and the Black Bloods displayed an unusual amount of goodwill as they volunteered to help train the more inexperienced soldiers in close-quarter combat. Over 300 men had separated into groups of eight and took turns in freestyle sparring sessions. The Black Bloods watched and pointed out flaws. Pellinore was the loudest. He yanked older men and screamed in their ears.

This went on for some time…until Agravain grew weary of his spit-flying insults.

Agravain charged Pellinore, determined to even the score from their last bout. Everyone stopped what they were doing and cheered them on. Even Toothless Kersey and the lancers took a break and brought their horses over. Pellinore was taking it easy on the fourteen-year-old at first, but more and more, Agravain gave him no choice but to clutch his claymore with both hands. It was amazing, like a choreographed dance of aggressive swings and silver flashes. Agravain was smirking. A flustered Pellinore was beginning to sweat.

“Like a damn jackrabbit!” grunted Pellinore. He was about to say more but Agravain was on him.

Isolde giggled before she realized Gawain was barely watching. His eyes were on the match but his sights were on the future.

“Yes?” Isolde said as she leaned into his shoulder.

“You say ideal but that would suggest…I dunno. I suppose you’re right. I just, I guess I never dreamed we’d reach a point where our houses could ever be joined as one.”

Isolde picked up on his skepticism and reacted with a twitch. “Because we devils are so treacherous and evil?”

“Forgive me but I do recall being enslaved and abused for a number of years. And that’s putting it lightly.”

“Yes and why do you think that is? You assume we have nothing better to do than lock you simple people up in chains? Don’t make me laugh. My father was murdered by pirates flying under your Tintagel banners. They sacked his ship and killed him and my uncle. I’ll never forget the sight of crows picking at their bodies. It was your people who forced my mother to take slaves and engage in wholesale annihilation. Or did you think our clans stayed loyal out of the goodness of their hearts, that they’d follow a woman into battle out of respect for my father or silly things like oaths and honor! No, Gawain. A ruthless show of force was necessary to keep my mother’s kingdom from falling apart. And yes! We’ve turned a profit by pitting warlord against warlord. But it’s more so to keep them occupied. If they’re too busy defending their own, they won’t think of invading ours.” Isolde declared with tears glossing over.

“I never knew,” Gawain uttered.

“Well of course you wouldn’t, my handsome little crow. Algayre and Morholt are vile creatures, sure. But you shouldn’t judge us by our worst. I bet they think we drink from the blood of goats and pass our children through fire out of sacrifice to some pagan god. You’ve sheltered with us for years. You of all people should know that we’re not so different, our houses. One could even argue that we’re equal but opposites. It’s all this blood for blood that needs to cease. Otherwise, we’re stuck on a perpetuating cycle, doomed to repeat the sins of our fathers for generations to come.”

Gawain smirked. “Who knew you gave so much thought.”

“We are heirs to the throne, you and I. The legacy of our kingdoms rests on our shoulders. Down there, they will never know what it’s like to make difficult decisions for the betterment of an entire nation of men, women, and children, to govern. They are free to live for the here and now while we are forced to sacrifice the present for a more prosperous future. A wise man once taught me that.”

“Who?”

“Merlin the Magician, back when I was a little child and too stupid to remember which dress to put on. For some reason, I never forgot those words,” Isolde said as she gazed off in the distance.

Pellinore and Agravain were still going at it. It was good to see everyone in good spirits. Gawain stood up to stretch out his back. He started smirking at the next subject he wanted to broach.

“So a marriage then. Given your history, I do wonder how well you’ll get along with Tristan.”

Isolde smirked and batted her long eyelashes. “You girl!”

“What?!” Gawain chuckled.

“If you want to know, just ask. I’m not Morgan. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me,” Isolde assured him.

“Alright, fine. Do you want to marry Tristan?”

Isolde’s blue eyes widened with excitement as she stood up and arched her back against a stone pillar. And as she inhaled through the nose, moaning at the thought, she suddenly erupted with joyous laughter.

“He’s all I ever wanted!”