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SWORD OF DARKNESS
Lords of Avalon 1
By
Kinley MacGregor
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
The Stone of Taranis
The Legend
The Thirteen Sacred Objects
Vocabulary
Author's Note
About the Author
Kinley MacGregor
SWORD OF DARKNESS
LORDS OF AVALON
Dear Reader,
The Lords of Avalon started while I was in college, working on a paper about the Celtic origins of the Arthurian legends and how they were woven into the Courtly Love movement. Later, that paper became a thesis of how Celtic lore was the basis of the entire Courtly Love movement and not Arabic poetry as has been suggested.
Those years of research set fire to my imagination. As I continued my work, I began to wonder what happened after Arthur's death. Surely such magic didn't just die…Surely such evil didn't die. No, it had to have lived, and with that seed of an idea, their world exploded.
Not since I started my Dark-Hunter series have I been so captivated by the vibrancy of my characters. They have completely seized my imagination, and I hope they enthrall you as well.
Thanks for taking this journey with me.
By Kinley MacGregor
SWORD OF DARKNESS
RETURN OF THE WARRIOR
A DARK CHAMPION
TAMING THE SCOTSMAN
BORN IN SIN
CLAIMING THE HIGHLANDER
MASTER OF DESIRE
MASTER OF SEDUCTION
A PIRATE OF HER OWN
Prologue
Long ago in a land that was lost in anarchy, there was an enchanted sword that had been forged by the hands of the fey. Imbued with their power and nurtured by the soul of the goddess Britannia, the sword was said to grant immortality and superhuman strength to any who wielded it. Even the scabbard that protected the sword was special. So long as a man wore it strapped to his hips, he would never bleed.
It was a sword that could not be broken. Nor could it be defeated.
But as with all things of great power, there were those who feared it. Those who sought to destroy this sword, only to learn that nothing forged by the fey could be destroyed by mere mortal hands. Fearful of who would one day command its magic, its owner sent it out into the world with a sole guardian who imbedded it deep into a boulder. For years it lay fallow in the heart of the darkest forest of Britannia, unseen and unknown, and protected by a spell that would allow only one person of special birth to draw it forth from its resting place.
They hid it well, hoping that it would be lost to the world of man forever.
And so it was until the day when a young man happened upon it.
Born to a peasant mother who was known to despise and resent him, he was nothing remarkable. He was just a lad in the height of his youth, trying to survive the harshness of his life. One in need of a sword to protect himself from those out to harm him, and lo and behold, there in the deep, dark, overgrown forest was a sword he might use.
Grasping the rusted hilt of it, he gave a yank, praying with all his heart that it would come free so that he could fight those who sought him.
The sword refused to move.
He could hear the thundering hooves crashing through the brush as his enemies came closer and closer still. They would be upon him at any moment, and he would be beaten or worse.
They would kill him.
Terrified, the sweaty, breathless boy, dressed only in filthy rags, wrapped both of his grimy hands around the rough hilt and heaved with all his might. Suddenly a surge of painful power went through him. It felt as if his hands were now melded and forged to the rusted hilt that turned to gold underneath his hands. The sword's power crept through his body, invading him, hurting him.
The gold on the pommel parted slowly to reveal a red dragon's eye. It stared at him for a full heartbeat as if measuring his worthlessness.
Then with a resounding scrape of metal that echoed through the dark, cursed forest, the sword came free. The boy cried out as the bittersweet pain seized his heart.
The blade of the sword glowed red, then turned to fire. It cast its fey light on those in pursuit of the boy, striking them down instantly where they stood. Men before the light touched them, they became nothing more than smoldering piles of ash.
The fire vanished from the blade that still glowed as if it were a living creature. With its red light shining brightly in the dim foliage, the sword seemed to sing like a dragon cooing to its young. The boy held the sword aloft in his sweaty palm as he felt the power of it running through him like hot wine. It was warm and heady and intoxicating. Seductive. Consuming.
And he knew he would never be the same again.
"You are the one…" the breezy, haunting voice whispered ominously through the trees, scaring the boy even more than the light had.
But this is not the tale of King Arthur.
And this is not the sword Excalibur.
This is the story of the Kerrigan, the champion of all things evil.
Like the Arthur of legend, his destiny was to rule over Camelot, only his Camelot was unlike any you have ever seen or heard before…
Chapter 1
Seren stood before the aged guild masters with all her hopes showing brightly on her face as they examined the workmanship of her precious scarlet cloth. They reminded her of a group of crows, swathed in black, gathered over their latest victim. But not even that thought could dampen her hopes that they each held in their gnarled hands.
For the whole of the last year, she had worked diligently on the scarlet cloth they examined, using every spare coin, every spare moment to prepare it. Like a woman possessed, she had dragged out her mother's old wooden loom at night and worked with only the firelight to guide her.
With every brush of her comb, every thread, she had felt the power of her creation.
It was perfect. There were no discrepancies in the dye or stitches.
Truly, it was a masterpiece.
And if they accepted it, then she would finally be a journeywoman and a guild member. At long last, she would be her own person! All her dreams of freedom and of being paid coin for her hard work would come true. There would be no more days of working from sunup to sundown for room and board from Master Rufus, of having to scrub clothes late at night for Mistress Maude to pay for her supplies.
She could sell her own cloth…
She could—
"Not good enough."
Seren blinked at the harsh pronouncement as she stared at the four men before her. "P-pardon?"
"Not good enough," the master craftsman said with a curl to his lips as he looked at her work. "I wouldn't use it for a horse blanket."
Seren couldn't breathe as her heart shrank. Nay! He was wrong. He had to be. "But I—"
"Take it," he said, tossing the cloth at her. "Come back to us when you're worthy of the trade."
The red cloth stung her face from the force of his throw. Unable to mo
ve, she stood there with it falling from her head to her arms. Instinctively, she held it to her even though she didn't know why she bothered to protect it since it was now worthless to her.
Her soul cried out in disappointment as all her dreams withered and died in the cold room.
How could they say such a thing about her work? It was a lie. She knew it. Her cloth was perfect.
Perfect!
She wanted to scream that word, but all the bitter disappointment gathered in her throat to tighten it and choke her until she could no longer speak. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be real.
Someone came forward and pulled her away from the masters, toward the door in the back. Tears fell uncontrollably from her face as the harsh words echoed repeatedly in her head.
How could her cloth not be worthy?
"I spent all my time on this," she whispered, her heart breaking. "All my precious coin." She'd worn rags so she could buy the materials she'd needed to produce the cloth. She'd gone all winter with holes in her shoes, only to be told that all her sacrifices had been in vain.
How could this be?
"'Tis not your cloth," the man whispered as he pulled her from the hall. "There are too many weavers here. They will admit no more to the guild until one leaves or dies."
Was that supposed to comfort her? To feed her? Nay, it did nothing but make her angry.
Damn them all for this.
"Take my word for it, child, you are better off without being in the guild."
"How so?"
He placed her hand on her cloth and gave her a peculiar look of warning. "You have much larger matters to concern yourself with than being an apprentice. Believe me."
Before she could ask him what he meant, the man pushed her out into the street. She heard him bolt the door behind her.
Seren stood there on the stoop of the guildhall with all her dreams shattered. She was an apprentice still, and so long as she bore that title, she couldn't charge a fee for her work. Couldn't marry. Couldn't do anything more than what Master Rufus or Mistress Maude told her to do.
She had no life to call her own. And from the looks of it, she never would.
Bitter anger washed through her as she stared at her perfect, useless cloth.
"What good are you?" she sobbed. By law, she couldn't even use the cloth to make a gown for herself. Only those of noble birth could wear the bright color. It was fit for naught but burning.
All was lost.
"Excuse me?"
Seren wiped at the tears on her face as she turned to see a tall, well-dressed knight nearing her. His golden blond hair brushed his incredibly wide shoulders. He was dressed in mail armor covered by a deep green surcoat that bore a rampant silver stag…The weave of said garment was not nearly so fine as her scarlet cloth, and yet she held no doubt it had been made by someone those beasts had granted guild status to while denying it to her.
Stop it, Seren.
The cloth he wore wasn't important. The fact that a man of his class spoke to her was. She couldn't imagine what he might want with her.
Making sure that she didn't offend him by meeting his gaze, she spoke in an even, calm tone. "Is there something I can do for you, my lord?"
He glanced behind him toward another handsome knight who looked close enough in features to be a relation of some sort. Only that knight had his blond hair cut shorter and wore a well-trimmed beard.
"Are you Seren of York, the weaver's apprentice?"
She cocked her head suspiciously, wondering how noblemen had learned her name and why they would know it. "Why do you ask me such, my lord?"
"I am Gawain," he said with an eager, gentle smile, "and this is my brother Agravain."
The names surprised her. She'd only heard of them in one place. "As in the tales of King Arthur?"
His face lightened instantly. "You know us?"
"Nay, my lord, I do not. I only know of the stories the old men and minstrels tell at night for food and shelter, or in the street when they seek coin."
He frowned at her. "But you do know of the knights of Arthur's Round Table?"
"Aye, my lord. Is there any who does not?"
His smile returned. "Then you know us. We are the same. My brother and I have been sent here to find you. You are to be mother of the next Merlin, and you must come with us so that we can protect you."
Seren went cold at his words. Mother to the next Merlin? What was this game they played?
But then she feared that she knew. It was more than common for a nobleman to set his sights on a peasant girl for his pleasure. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Peasants had no rights before their noble masters.
Yet if she went with them and Master Rufus learned of it, he'd throw her out. Both he and his wife required chastity of all their apprentices. Gilda had been turned out just last year when they had learned she'd done nothing more than walk home from Mass with a young man.
They hadn't even held hands, and now Gilda was ruined and working in the local stew with no hope of anything better.
"Please, my lord," she said, her voice shaking with sincerity, "do not ask this of me. I am a good and decent woman. I have nothing in this world except my untarnished reputation. I am sure there is goodness in you that you would not see an innocent woman suffer for your lust."
He looked confused by her words.
"You're blowing it, Wain," the other knight said in an aggravated tone.
What strange words to use. She'd never heard such before, and they most certainly didn't apply to their situation since the knight he addressed held nothing to his lips.
He moved past Gawain and bowed low before her. "My lady, please. We mean you no harm. We are only here to protect you."
It was a struggle not to look up at them. "Protect me from what, my lord?"
The only thing she needed protection from was men such as these.
It was the one called Gawain who answered. "Morgen's clutches. You belong with us and are to be a bride of Avalon and as such we need you to come with us now before the mods find you and take you to Camelot."
She couldn't help looking up at them after all that. What odd words they used. "Mods? What the devil is a mod?"
"Minions of death. Mods. They are a race that was created by the Celtic god Balor before he died. Now they are controlled by Morgen and she will send them for you. Mark my words."
They were mad! Both of them. Seren took a step back, her heart hammering. What could she do? If she called out for help, they could claim her as one of their serfs. She wasn't even sure if Master Rufus would help her. He wouldn't dare contradict a nobleman.
God save her.
There was nothing to be done about it. She'd have to run and pray she escaped them.
Holding tight to her cloth, she dodged into the street, away from them, and ran with all her might. She heard the men shouting at her to stop. But there was no way she would allow them to catch her and have their pleasure with her.
Darting down an alleyway, she stumbled over a piece of broken cobblestone, then caught herself. She looked about for an escape.
There was a small, narrow pass between two buildings that would only just let her through. The men should be too large to follow.
Seren ran to the opening and pressed herself against the wall before she inched her way down it. There was an awful smell here, and it was a struggle not to breathe through her nose. Even so, smelly or not, it was infinitely better than the alternative. Better her nose be assaulted than her body.
She heard the men enter the alley behind her and curse.
"Where is she?"
"Merlin will kill us if we don't return with her."
"You and your bright ideas. I swear, Gawain, I should have strangled you at birth." He changed his tone to a high-pitched, mocking one. "We'll just tell her who we are and she'll come with us willingly. No problem." His voice then returned to its deep, accusing tone. "Damn you for the stupidity. I should have left your rank ass in th
e twentieth century instead of bringing you home."
"I wish you had. I certainly prefer it to this. Not that it matters. What was your bright idea to get her away from Morgen? Huh? You didn't have one at all, did you, Brother Intellect?"
While they argued and berated each other with nonsensical phrases, she continued on her way toward the end.
"There she is!"
She turned her head to see the knights at the opening behind her. They tried to follow and couldn't, so then they pulled back to run around the building.
Seren popped out of the alley, then ran headlong down the narrow, cobblestone street. There were people everywhere, going to market and to businesses. With any luck, the knights would lose sight of her in the crowd.
Or at least she thought so until she rounded a corner and found herself face to face with Gawain again.
How had he gotten here so quickly?
"You can't hide from us, Seren." He took her arm.
Seren twisted away from him and bolted again into the thronging mass. People cursed and pushed at her as she collided with them in her haste. Her heart felt as though it would explode from her fear and panic.
What was she going to do?
Looking behind her to see them still in pursuit, she darted into the street, then skidded to a stop as she heard a horse shrieking.
Seren glanced up to see a large black destrier rearing before her. Its shiny hooves pawed the air as if it wanted nothing more than to pummel her with them. She held her arm up to protect herself and prayed the animal stopped before it savaged her.
The knight spoke to the horse in a language she didn't understand as he brought the beast under control. "Are you trying to kill yourself, woman," he snarled at her.
But the anger on his fair face faded as he looked at her, and his features softened to something less than severe. "Forgive me for my rudeness, good woman. I hope that I didn't frighten you overmuch. It was only the surprise of my horse rearing that caused me to snap."
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