Ruins of Camelot

by G. Norman Lippert

  Eventually, the sun began to descend behind her, casting her shadow out before her. She followed it, watching it stretch longer and longer. The yellow grass became coppery in the descending light. A few trees dotted the landscape now, looking gnarled and dead. Odd, gigantic boulders arose from the grass, as if cast from enormous trebuchets eons ago, forgotten like playing pieces on a monstrous game board.

  Gabriella stopped near one of these and leant against it, her back to the sun where it blazed on the western horizon, its red light melting into the dark line of the earth.

  She withdrew her flask from her pack and drunk from it sparingly, careful not to let even a drop dribble down her chin. She considered stopping to sleep. It had been a long, wearying day, and as much as she dreaded the lost time, she knew that she would only waste her supplies by traveling tired, when she was less efficient.

  She lowered her pack and knelt down next to it. Before she could unroll her blanket, however, a subtle sensation drifted over her. She frowned slightly and then lowered her hand, touching the rocky ground before her.

  There was a dull rumble. It was very faint, and she couldn't tell if she was feeling it or hearing it. Leaving her pack, she stood up again and scanned the steppe all around her. Rounding the boulder, she peered toward the northern horizon. At first glance, she saw nothing. Then, faintly, she spied a cloud rising, drifting off into the wind. She watched it, squinting in the dying light, and felt her heart begin to quicken.

  The rumble became more pronounced, and dark specks began to take shape beneath the cloud. They were too low to be horses and riders, yet too few to be a stampede of some native steppe animal. The size of them made it difficult to judge distance. Before she knew what was happening, the shapes were nearly upon her. She watched, grimly transfixed, as the nearest of the creatures came fully into view. It was a large, brutish beast with a blunt, shaggy head, tossing and huffing, its wide-spaced eyes glinting yellowly in the sunset. Twisted horns grew from the sides of its head, curving down and out. Its feet were hooves, churning the ground like pistons, sending up gouts of torn earth and grass in its wake. Gabriella recognized the creature from the magical histories. They were called chortha, the beastly, feral offspring of the ancient minotaur. Something was riding on the chortha’s back, clinging grimly and hunkered low, as if prodding the beast onwards with maddening whispers in its ears.

  Gabriella realised the chortha were nearly upon her. She began to back away towards the nearby boulder, and then turned and bolted, fearing the beasts might overrun her, trampling her in their haste.

  She lunged behind the boulder just as the first of the chortha thundered past, shaking the ground and pulling a cloud of gritty dust. Gabriella pressed her back up against the rock and hugged her knees, boggling as the creature pounded onwards, bearing its strange burden. The rider appeared to be human but was dressed only in rags, so that streams and tatters of cloth trailed behind it. Pale skin was stretched over prominent ribs, and the hunched spine was picked out in a row of ugly bumps. A shock of wild, black hair tossed between the rider's knobby shoulders.

  More of the chortha appeared now, buffeting Gabriella with the noise and rumble of their passage. Each of the beasts bore a rider, and Gabriella saw that they were armed. Swords were strapped to belts on the riders' wasted hips or worn slung across their backs, but there were no shields or helmets.

  An icicle of suspicion suddenly pressed into Gabriella's chest, chilling her. What if these horrid men were in the employ of Merodach? What if this was his advance force, rushing toward Herrengard to waylay the royal caravan? Without thinking, she jumped up and drew her own sword with a ring of metal.

  She spun, peered around the boulder, and saw three more of the chortha thundering towards her, their mouths gnashing and their riders glaring forwards, lying low on the backs of their mounts. Gabriella steeled her nerve, spun her sword so that the blade protruded down rather than up, and then scrambled up onto the boulder, climbing into full sight of the oncoming riders.

  "Stop in the name of the Princess of Camelot!" she shouted, raising both of her hands, her sword still jutting from the bottom of her right fist.

  The beasts neither slowed nor showed any deviation in their course. The blank faces of the riders did not so much as flinch. The nearer riders passed the boulder upon which Gabriella stood, first on the right, and then the left. The third chortha galloped straight towards her, as if it meant to ram head first into the sloped face of the boulder. Gabriella watched, eyes widening, resisting the urge to jump out of the way. She crouched and spun her sword upright again, clutching the hilt with both hands.

  At the last moment, the rider twitched the mane of its beast, and the great creature lunged upwards, scissoring its forelegs into the air and, incredibly, launching onto the slope of the boulder. Its hot breath chugged into Gabriella's face, its hooves clawed and scrabbled at the rock, carrying it up and over.

  Gabriella leapt sideways, throwing herself clear and swinging her sword downwards in a steely blur. It connected with the rider, hacking into it, and then both the beast and Gabriella fell away from each other.

  She struck the ground and rolled, dropping her sword. A split second later, the chortha landed, shaking the ground, momentum forcing it into a shuddering stumble. It tripped over itself, scrambled, dug in its hooves, and then launched forwards again, pushing onwards in the wake of its fellows.

  The rider, however, had fallen off. The horrid figure rolled awkwardly on the ground, its scabbard flapping like a fin, and then it began to struggle upright.

  Gabriella's shoulder throbbed where she had landed on it, but she leapt to her feet, scooped up her sword, and gave chase. Ahead of her, the figure began to lope after its beast, huffing raggedly.

  "Stop!" Gabriella cried out, panting. "I command you! What is your business? Where are you going? Tell me! I don't want to have to hurt you!"

  But, as she could clearly see, she already had. The figure's gait was clumsy despite its speed, because it was missing its left arm. It had been severed raggedly just above the elbow. Black blood dribbled from the wound, staining the remains of the figure's tunic.

  Gabriella's stomach turned, but she did not slow. She was gaining on the figure. It was tall and gangly like a young man, albeit with an old woman's ragged, grey hair. Its remaining arm was rippled with muscle, pumping awkwardly as it ran.

  "Stop, damn you!" Gabriella commanded, lunging and hooking a handful of the figure's tattered clothes. She yanked, and it stumbled. Suddenly, it spun around, raised its remaining hand into a claw, and lunged back towards her. The creature’s face was slack and wasted around a gaping mouth, out of which came a rough exhale of bestial loathing. Its eyes were cloudy, white marbles, rolling grotesquely.

  Gabriella let go of the figure’s torn tunic and scrambled backwards, repulsed. Her feet slipped, and she fell back, raising her sword instinctively, if wildly, against the horror. It was not a man. At least, not anymore.

  The creature stopped immediately. Without a second look, it spun around and ran on again, following its fellows. They rumbled onwards, already merely a drifting cloud against the last rays of the sun.

  Gabriella still held up her sword, trembling. She looked at it, saw the swipe of black blood smeared across its middle, and then dropped it in horror. She scuttled backwards, her breath coming in harsh gasps.

  The awful figure dwindled into a distant silhouette, still running, blood still dripping from the stump of its left arm.

  She had thought that the riders might be an advance force sent out by Merodach, meaning to head off the caravan on its way to Herrengard. Whatever they were, however, they were not human soldiers. They were monsters. Such things simply could not be in the employ of Merodach.

  Could they?

  Slowly, still trembling, Gabriella got to her feet and retrieved her sword. She retraced her steps back towards the boulder. The tracks of the chortha were a scarred highway of torn earth and trampled grass.

&nbs
p; Lying in the sunset at the base of the boulder was the severed arm. Blood leaked thinly from the stump, the colour of plum in the dying sunlight. The white fingers flexed and relaxed slowly, rhythmically, like the legs of a dead spider.

  Seeing this, Gabriella nearly vomited. She felt her gorge rise, then clapped the back of her hand over her mouth, desperate to hold it in.

  She ran, stumbling around the boulder. Her pack was still lying in the shadow on the other side. She scooped it up, not slowing, and pelted onwards, weary but intent, meaning only to put as much distance between that awful severed arm and herself as possible.

  The riders had neither been living nor dead. The severed arm, its fingers flexing and spasming, proved it. Perhaps it would crawl after its master, just as its master had run off after the others, following whatever grim duty it was that propelled them. Worse, what if the severed arm crawled after her instead, making its way slowly but doggedly through the whispering grass, leaking that awful black blood in its wake?

  She ran on, gasping and stumbling on the rocky earth as the sun finally slipped over the horizon. She simply could not sleep within sight of the horrid dismembered thing.

  Dimly, she wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again.

  Exhaustion eventually overtook her.

  It caught up to her as she crossed a large plate of rock, scoured of grass and cracked like an enormous platter. She stumbled to one knee, panting, and simply could not get up again. She remained there, one hand and one knee pressed to the cold stone. After a minute, she sank fully to the ground, hugged her pack like a pillow, and huddled there against the wind.

  She slept. And dreamt.

  Warmth covered her slowly. It buzzed in her joints, soothing her soreness. For what seemed like a long time, she simply lay there and soaked in that pleasant, calming warmth. It was a familiar sensation. It was, in fact, sunlight.

  Gabriella opened her eyes slowly without getting up. The rocky shelf was awash with golden sunbeams. The rays stroked her cheek. A soft breeze combed the nearby grass and lifted her hair. It smelled like heather. Gabriella pushed herself upright and looked around. The steppe was transformed by the cheery sunlight. What had earlier seemed desolate and barren now seemed merely quiet and strangely expectant.

  The change was very welcome, as was the accompanying shift in her attitude. The creeping dread was replaced by a solemn tranquillity. Everything, she felt with calm certainty, was going to be all right. Her mission, whatever it had been, suddenly didn't seem to matter any more. Of course it didn't. The disaster (whatever it was) had been averted. The horrors had been made right. The Little Prince would be fine, as would Sigrid, and Father, and even—

  Darrick.

  He was still alive. And so was Rhyss. They were coming to meet her.

  Elation filled Gabriella, and she leapt to her feet. Her face was flush with overwhelmed delight as she looked all around, shading her eyes with her hand, breathlessly hoping that she might see them already. The sun-washed Barrens shushed all around, empty for miles in every direction. Neither Darrick nor Rhyss were anywhere in sight.

  That was all right too. Gabriella dropped her hand and sighed deeply, happily. The suspense of Darrick and Rhyss's coming was a joy in itself. She would savour it and wait for them there on her expanse of cracked, white rock. Funny how she had come to think of it as her rock, and yet it made sense. This was where her greatest loves would find her. They would seek her here, and here only, for it was a magical beacon to them. Until they came, it would be her home. She would wait patiently, expectantly.

  Someone else was coming as well, someone whose voice she had almost, but not quite, forgotten, someone whom she had missed far longer than the others. Someone who would hug her, and cradle her, and sing her songs. Her mother. She would be there soon. The mere thought of it brought tears of joy.

  There was a noise, a rustling behind Gabriella. Darrick was there! He had arrived! He was coming out of the grass behind her, smiling with love, holding out his arms to embrace her. She spun around to greet him, launching herself in his direction. And then she frowned, because he wasn't there after all. It had been the wind.

  No, not the wind. It was Rhyss, not Darrick. She was hiding in the bushes near the other end of the clearing, playing her old games.

  "Rhyss!" Gabriella called, turning around and laughing. "Please, don't tease me! Come and let me see your face! Laugh with me, Rhyss!"

  She heard her but didn't see her. Rhyss's laughter was like a ribbon in the wind. She was not behind the bushes, but still far off, her voice carrying on the breeze through the lonely distance. Gabriella lowered her hands and shook her head, smiling crookedly. Her friend would be here soon. Darrick would be with her. And then, not long after them, her mother would come. They would all be there together, and they would never have to be apart again. Until then, Gabriella would wait.

  She would wait.

  She sat down on the warm rock and hugged her knees to her chest. The wind whispered and shushed, making undulating patterns on the grass beyond the stony shelf. She watched it, listening for those that she loved.

  Something screeched behind her. It was a sudden, jarring sound, and Gabriella couldn't help jumping. She spun onto her knees, looking back.

  A large bird stood in the sunlight, its beady eye cocked at her severely. It had a hooked, grey beak and tawny feathers on its chest. Its wings were darker, each feather rimmed with tan. As she watched, it ruffled its feathers, nearly doubling in size, and unfurled its wings. It squawked at her piercingly.

  Go away, she thought at it, frowning. The noise of the bird was horrible. It would keep the others away. She knew it instinctively. Be quiet and go away!

  The bird—she recognised it as a falcon—took a flapping, hopping step towards her and screeched again. It darted its head forwards, as if it meant to tear at her face. She flinched backwards, instinctively raising a hand to her cheek.

  "Go!" she rasped at it, keeping her voice hushed like the whispering breeze all around. "Leave me alone, you filthy thing!"

  The bird did not go. It tilted its head, staring at her in that odd sidelong way that birds do. It spread its wings fully and hopped towards her again, flapping into the air and raising its talons. The talons, Gabriella saw, were black and needle-sharp, hooked like thorns. She scrambled away from the bird, struggling to get her feet beneath her and shield her face at the same time.

  When she looked up, the bird was still there, still flapping and screeching, nearly upon her. Its gold-ringed eyes seemed as large as saucers.

  Gabriella threw herself backwards, kicking with both feet. She landed in the grass at the ledge of the stone clearing and rolled, covering her head with her hands.

  The grass around her was shockingly cold. She opened her eyes and lifted her head. Darkness blanketed the ground, full of hissing, icy wind.

  "No!" she barked hoarsely, scrambling to her feet in dismay. "No! Darrick! Rhyss! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean to get off the—"

  But even as she stumbled to her feet, the reality of the dream faded to tatters. It blew away into the darkness and was replaced with only aching loneliness. Darrick and Rhyss were dead. They were never coming back. If she did not hurry on her journey, the Little Prince might soon be dead as well, along with Sigrid, Treynor, her father, and the whole of Camelot.

  "No," she moaned, sinking back into the grass, letting her hands fall limp into her lap. It had been such a lovely dream, unlike anything she had ever known before. It had been so real. She had felt the beams of the sun, smelled the heather, heard the distant voices of those she loved, laughing as they returned to her.

  She looked aside at the rocky shelf upon which she had slept. To her great surprise, the falcon was still there, looking surprisingly small in the blue darkness. It had furled its wings again and now merely stood there, regarding her with one golden eye. Its feathers fluttered faintly in the wind.

  "It's a trap, isn't it?" she said faintly. "A place to lure pe
ople to their dooms. They'd stop there, camp there, and dream. And once they had started dreaming, they'd never wish to stop. They would stay there forever, no matter what, even if they knew that it was a trap. Because sometimes…," she sighed wistfully, "sometimes the dream is better, and more real, than any reality."

  The bird cocked its head, not seeming to listen. After a moment, it turned around, ruffled its wings, and hopped away. Gabriella thought it was leaving, and then she saw where it was actually heading. The falcon stopped near her pack, dipped its beak, and caught the loop of rope that closed it. Then, flapping its wings for balance, it began to pull the pack across the face of the cracked rock. When it was nearly to the grassy edge, it stumbled and dropped the rope, letting out a frustrated screech.

  "Thank you," Gabriella said, reaching over the boundary to grab her pack. The falcon immediately darted its head forwards and nipped the back of her wrist, drawing a line of blood. Gabriella hissed and yanked her arm back, clapping her other hand over the scratch.

  "Curse you, you damn bird!" she cried angrily. The falcon merely stared, tilting its head up at her, as if measuring her. Finally, it turned back once more, caught the rope into its beak, and pulled her pack the rest of the way out of the stony clearing.

  This done, the falcon immediately clapped its wings, launched into the air, and flapped away.

  Gabriella watched, frowning miserably, and then drew a deep sigh. She uncovered the scratch on her wrist, saw that it was quite shallow, and washed it with a few drops of water from her flask.

  There were no mysterious piles of berries for her to breakfast on that morning. Instead, she ate some more of her dwindling bread and dried venison, sipped a few swallows of water, and then climbed to her feet.

  She stopped. Slowly, almost helplessly, she turned back to the bare clearing of rock behind her. It called to her, promising its happy lies. She realised, with deep dismay, that she desired those lies. She could, if she so chose, step right back onto that plate of stone, lie down, and be swallowed up again in the delicious hope of the dream. So what if the hope was only a mirage? Why should an imagined delight be worse than a real horror?