Children of Avalon

by Meredith Bond

  She laughed, a sweet tinkling giggle. “When Nimuë is defeated we’ll have time to create and exchange necteres. Until then...” She paused and looked up, smiling with all her heart into my eyes. “Until then, know that my love and my life are with you. That we are one.”

  I nodded, my throat clogged with emotion. When Nimuë was defeated. More beautiful words could not be spoken. I took a deep breath to dispel some of the tightness in my chest. “Yes. Once Nimuë is defeated, we’ll have a proper hand–fasting—the most beautiful Avalon has ever seen.”

  She looked down at that but gave a little nod.

  I knew what she was thinking. She wanted a church wedding. She was raised in the church by a priest. Even though he was gone, I was certain it would be important to her to have our union blessed in that way. I vowed to myself to make sure that she got exactly what she wanted.

  Chapter 16

  Sir Dagonet was the first to hear it.

  He slowed his horse as we made our way through the thick of the tents the following morning, before speeding up as much as he safely could. I couldn’t believe I had to spur my horse in order to keep up with the old man. But as the tents grew more sparse, I began to hear it, too—the unmistakable sounds of battle.

  For the first time in my life, I was actually grateful for my foster brother’s cruelty.

  As we got closer to the battlefield, my senses were overloaded with the high emotions surrounding around us. My wall was up, but even then, as we got closer, I had to do some quick work to reinforce it so that I wouldn’t feel the pain, excitement and blood lust, surging all around us.

  What I wasn’t prepared for, though, was the blood. It was everywhere, turning the dust of the field into a deep red mud. I swallowed hard, refusing to allow my stomach to empty itself in front of my companions—in front of Scai. I would not lose face that way.

  Aron had no such compunction. He leapt down from his horse but didn’t make it more than a few steps before he was doubled over, retching.

  I looked over at Scai wondering whether she would be joining Aron. Amazingly enough, although tears streamed silently down her cheeks, she seemed to be in no danger of becoming sick.

  Sir Dagonet just sighed before pulling out the chain mail skirt that would cover his legs and part of his horse. His helmet was next and finally the shield, which I had never seen unattached from the old knight’s saddle.

  “Meet over by that oak at sunset?” he asked, before he plunked his helmet on.

  “Yes, sir,” Scai answered. Bridget nodded but kept quiet. She hadn’t said a word since we’d gotten close to the battlefield, but there was a serious, even worried expression on her face. I wondered whether she was thinking of her brothers, or of all of the medical work she would be doing.

  “All right, Aron?” Sir Dagonet asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll, um, find the armory and help out there,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  Sir Dagonet nodded. “Dylan? You’ll need a shield.”

  “I’ll pick one up.” Looking onto the field, I could see an unmarked shield lying discarded on the ground not too far away.

  “Right.” Sir Dagonet spurred his horse forward. I followed right behind.

  I did end up losing the contents of my stomach when I stopped to pick up the shield and found that it was still attached to an arm. I didn’t know where the rest of the man’s body was and I had no desire to find out. I pried open the fingers still holding on to the handle of the shield and slid it off. I remounted as quickly as I could.

  It was a good thing I did, because a knight was bearing down on me, sword raised, ready to attack.

  “English or Dane?” the man called out seconds before his sword connected with the shield I was still trying to shift into position.

  “English!” I screamed back.

  The man’s sword swiped harmless by me. “Get yourself some armor, man!” the fellow called out as he swung his horse around to attack someone else.

  My heart pounded for a moment at the close call, but then, I supposed, I was going to have a lot more, even closer. I debated for a moment whether I should avail myself of some of the armor that lay strewn on the ground, no longer needed by those who wore it, but figured it would take too long to remove it from the dead. I wished I’d brought my surcoat with my own coat of arms on it so that I could be identified, but somehow when I’d run away from my foster brother it hadn’t occurred to me that I would need it. It would have helped if the shield I’d grabbed had had some recognizably English coat of arms on it, but at least it wasn’t Danish either.

  In lieu of protection, I turned all of my confidence over to Excalibur and hoped that the magic invested in the sword would be enough to protect me.

  Amazed, relieved and, not to mention, thrilled that my trust had not been misplaced, I fought through the melee without hesitation, taking down men faster than I’d ever thought possible. Fighting with a well–made sword was better than anything—the ease with which it moved, as if it were an extension of my own arm. All of my training and practice didn’t hurt either. I was able to let instinct take over as I fought my way through.

  I tried to locate Sir Dagonet, but the old knight was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t worry, though; I knew we would meet up sooner or later, even if it was only that night by the tree.

  I turned my attention back to fighting. I identified men to attack or not by their coat of arms that they wore emblazoned on either their shields or their chests. As I was dressed in ordinary clothes, I could have been from either camp and was frequently mistaken for the enemy who had come down from the north to try to take our king’s throne. A number of occasions I had to defend myself against an Englishman, until I could call out that I was one as well.

  It was well past noon when I spotted the Danish standard directly in front of me. I had just defeated another man in leather armor, when I turned and saw the standard bearer. The knight he was with wore what had been a white surcoat, but was now splattered with blood and mud. He was fighting a hard battle against an Englishman.

  My eyes latched on to the Englishman. It couldn’t be! I knew that coat of arms. I knew that man.

  “Father.” The word came out as a whisper and it was a good thing that it did since I didn’t want to distract him from his fight—he seemed to be having a hard enough time as it was.

  Shock and fear swamped me as I realized that my father was quickly losing this battle.

  My father! The man who had seemed so tireless, so in control, so amazingly quick and agile with his sword when I had last practiced with him. The man who had sneered at me and criticized my inability to keep up with him in a mock battle.

  He was being pushed back, forced to defend himself again and again, each time getting slower, and never moving to attack.

  I didn’t understand what he was doing—or not doing, as was the case. But I couldn’t allow this to happen. I couldn’t let my father be killed right in front of my eyes. Rage burst out of me like a dam exploding within me.

  How dare this knight beat my father. How dare my father not respond. How could he just defend himself and not use the very training, the tricks, the technique that he had belittled me for not using in our mock battles?

  Fury spurred my horse forward and I swung in from behind. Shoving aside the standard bearer, I shouted my anger as I attacked the knight. I slashed down at the knight’s exposed parts before the fellow knew what hit him. The man spun around to defend himself from my unexpected attack. And he defended himself well. But he was obviously tiring almost as quickly as my father had been. It didn’t take me more than another few strokes to dispatch him to the other world.

  “Dylan!” my father shouted, pulling off his helmet. “Behind you!”

  I turned, reluctant not to take a moment to at least share a word with my father, but I had no choice but to defend myself. “Get yourself to safety!” I called to my father, but he was already gone by the time I could spare a moment to look. I didn’t k
now where he’d gone, but I hoped it was someplace safe where he could rest.

  It was odd that he’d disappeared so quickly. I was certain he’d say something or arrange to meet somewhere later. But he’d said nothing. He’d just disappeared.

  I desperately wanted some time, even if it was just a minute or two, to speak to my father, to show him what I’d become. It had been so long since we’d seen each other. I couldn’t quite remember how long ago it had been, so much had happened to me in the intervening years. The only thing that stood out in my memory was the disappointment on my father’s face the last time we’d met and sparred.

  It was that face, that expression, that clouded my vision now. I almost didn’t see my opponent’s sword come slashing down towards me. I jerked my body away, but not in time. Pain shot through my arm, but I ignored it until I’d defeated the man. My hand was sticky with my own blood and my arm throbbed. It wasn’t very serious, but, still, I didn’t think I could continue fighting in this condition. I spurred my horse toward the castle where I was sure I would find an infirmary and Bridget to attend to me. Maybe this was where my father had disappeared to as well—maybe he’d been hurt. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to fight with all his strength.

  I sped up at the thought, galloping under the portcullis onto the castle grounds. There must have been hundreds of people milling about. Knights in armor, women running about with buckets of water or piles of cloth in their hands. They must be the ones caring for the injured, I surmised. Most of the women seemed to being going in and out of a pitched tent opposite a building off to the side—perhaps the kitchen? Yes, I decided, seeing two liveried men come out carrying a smoking caldron. I dismounted, tethering my horse loosely to a post near a trough of water so he could refresh himself as well. I followed the servants into the tent.

  I realized I must have lost a lot of blood when spots began dancing in front of my eyes. “Bridget!” I called out. “Bridget, I need you, please.”

  “Dylan!” It was Scai. Her arms started to come around me, but then she stopped upon seeing the state of my arm. I was never more thankful for that. Although I loved Scai and her hugs, I would have been in excruciating pain if she had hugged me as she had intended.

  Instead, she gently led me to a pallet on the ground and helped me to sit. “I’ll get Bridget,” she said, her voice sharp and businesslike.

  For the first time in hours, I let myself relax a little. I still kept my emotional wall strong—with so many people, most of them either anxious or in pain, I wouldn’t be able to handle it if I’d let my guard down for even a moment.

  As I waited, I tried to look around for any signs of my father. Men sat or lay on pallets just like the one I was on throughout the good–sized tent. Almost every available space was taken up, leaving the barest room for the women who attended to the injured. At the far end was a curtained off area with blood stains dripping down the white cloth. I supposed that was where they operated when necessary. I averted my eyes and mind from gory thoughts and focused instead on looking for the earl.

  There was one white–haired man, but his surcoat was completely covered in mud. My father’s had still been clean enough to see his coat of arms when he’d ridden away. No, the earl wasn’t here. So where had he gone off so quickly and why?

  I sat puzzling this through for what seemed like forever, and I still hadn’t come up with anything plausible when Bridget finally came to me. The pain in my arm had dulled to a throb. My fingers were numb, but I wiggled them every so often just to be sure that I could.

  Scai came and knelt on one side of me with a bowl of water and some clean cloths. Her hands were gentle as she began cleaning the wound, but the pain shot to life as soon as she did.

  “I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to clean it,” she said.

  “No. It’s all right.” I closed my eyes for a moment and let the pain wash through me. I felt warm hands wrap around my wounded arm and heat begin to surge into me.

  “Bridget, someone will see you,” Scai whispered, tension filling her voice.

  “No one will know what I’m doing,” Bridget whispered back, not removing her hands.

  “Bridget!”

  “It’s silly not to. Why should I make him go through the pain of stitches when I can just...? No one will see and then we’ll wrap up his arm as if I’d stitched him up instead. Now shift over a bit so that I’m hidden a little more.”

  I opened my eyes to see Bridget, tendrils of her flaming red hair curling around her face. It had come out of its braid, as usual, but her green eyes looked intensely at me, flaring as brightly as the fire she controlled with her magic. She gave me a little wink and a smile.

  After a quick glance over her shoulder at the busy scene behind her, she held one hand over my wound, still dripping with blood. Heat shot through my arm, burning and healing me at the same time. Quickly, before anyone could see what Bridget had done, Scai was wrapping a bandage around my arm where the gash had been only moments ago. I caught sight of red, but whole, skin before she covered it up.

  Bridget stood up with a satisfied grin on her face and then turned to return to the work she had to do without the aid of magic.

  Scai was just tucking the bandage closed when a liveried servant came up to us. “Dylan of Merwyd?”

  “Yes?” I answered.

  “His Royal Highness wishes you to join him at your earliest convenience.”

  “The king?”

  The servant bowed acknowledgement. “In his private quarters.”

  I looked to Scai who was staring at me with her beautiful blue eyes wider than perhaps I’d ever seen them. I stood up and moved to follow the man when there was a commotion in the doorway.

  “Careful! I say, wot, wot?” Sir Dagonet’s voice carried through the tent, but was quickly followed by a deep, guttural groan of pain.

  Scai shot ahead of me, and I was shoved roughly out of the way by Bridget as she ran toward the door and the old knight.

  “Been worse,” he ground out, as the men carrying him lowered him to the ground.

  Bridget was on Sir Dagonet within moments, tearing away at his blood–soaked breeches. I could see bone protruding from the man’s leg, and turned away before I became sick.

  “How did this happen?” Bridget asked.

  “Forgot how old I was, don’t you know?” Sir Dagonet laughed, but pain echoed through the knight’s voice.

  I turned back to the servant who was still waiting for me. “Tell his majesty I need to attend a friend who has been severely injured. I will come to him as soon as I can.”

  The man nodded and went off.

  I turned around to find Bridget right next to me. “Dylan, we’ve got to get him out of here. I can heal his bones, but not here,” she whispered.

  “But you just healed me.”

  She shook her head. “This is different. He’s broken both of the bones in his leg. I can meld them, very much like I meld iron to make a sword. It will take a lot of magic, though, and some time. Is there somewhere else we can take him?”

  I thought about this. This was a huge castle, there had to be somewhere private I could take them.

  The answer came in a minute. My father. The earl had to have rooms somewhere—very possibly within the castle itself.

  “I’ll find a place.” I left in a hurry, running after the servant I’d just dismissed. He would know where my father was, or at least, where his rooms were.

  Even as about the idea of seeking out my father formed in my mind, I began to have second thoughts. The last time we’d spoken I’d had to listen to a litany of all of my faults—how bad my form was as I’d fought, how lazy I was in my studies. My father had gone on and on. He hadn’t so much as spoken, but rather yelled at me. There hadn’t been one thing he’d said that had been kind or encouraging. All my father could see were my faults.

  I still burned with the anger and humiliation from my father’s lecture. If it weren’t for Sir Dagonet... No. I still longed to
see my father, speak with him. I didn’t know what he would say to me, but I had just saved his life. Perhaps he would have a kind word.

  And perhaps not.

  But Sir Dagonet was still in need. And honestly, I scolded myself, I couldn’t fight like a man on the battlefield and then run away like a scared little boy afterward. No, I was a man, and like a man, I would face my father’s wrath.

  Chapter 17

  Nimuë stared at the chalice. It was beautiful. It was beyond beautiful. It glowed with a faint hum of magic, the white marble a perfect conductor. Even it’s simple shape, the straight stem and the deep bowl of the cup was pleasing to the eye—elegant.

  She laughed. You could always count on Merlin to be elegant. She could almost imagine his thin, shapely fingers, so much stronger than they looked, fashioning the chalice from a rough–hewn block of stone.

  And into it he poured all of his magic! It was beyond comprehension how much that could be. Nimuë, herself so close to Merlin, couldn’t imagine that amount of power. And it was hers, now. All hers.

  If she could only figure out how to get it out of the chalice and into her.

  She had tried everything she could think of, but nothing, nothing had worked. She had almost contacted her sister, Morgan, to see if she knew, but thought that would not be a good idea. Morgan was still angry that she had stolen the chalice. The boy had been so easy to manipulate, she could not help but chuckle.

  But now it was just her and the chalice—unusable!

  She closed her eyes and let her frustration wash through her. The Children! They would know. Or maybe it was only they who could activate it. Whatever it was, she was certain she needed the trio.

  She waved a hand over the water in her silver bowl and willed it to show her the Children of Avalon. Dylan appeared first, engaged in battle. The scene shifted to the two girls who could be seen in a tent, tending to a wounded man.