by Kim Dragoner
“My love, find Rinnah! I will hold this creature here; slay him if I may. Mortal weapons cannot kill this abomination!” Naida punctuated her words by turning the ground beneath Anebos to a nest of serpents. Rhys looked on, unsure, but then turned on his heels against everything his heart commanded him to do, and fled into the Orchard.
Naida and Anebos dueled on, fire and blood against faery light.
Chapter Twelve
Camelot, Caerleon, England
Rinnah was sitting waiting for him at the end of the orchard.
She smiled, though she showed no sign of humor in her eyes. Clad in a simple purple shift, with hair of fire and wings that glowed in the sun, she was terror and beauty the same. She wore a great bow of silver and gold over her shoulder. A winged horse stood behind her, grazing on a small pile of apples that were magically raising themselves to be fed to the mystical creature. Rhys bowed to her, half of his mind with Naida. Great booming explosions and cries of anger echoed through the trees, coupled with gasping hisses from the wight Anebos. He felt adrenaline course through his veins.
“Rinnah, I am here.” He said, simply. He found he did not have the words for courtesy.
Rinnah spoke in a voice of tinkling glass. “I? Who is I? I am Rinnah, you are not. You, human, who disturbs my orchard with battle? You are unworthy to challenge me.” Rinnah leapt in the air, performed a somersault and landed in the high branch of a tree.
“Wait!” Rhys commanded. “Do you know naught of what has transpired? I must defeat you, or your own queen and all your kin will surely perish, along with me and mine.”
Rinnah laughed, and there was the subtle hint of madness to her glee that seemed like it was water inside a container being filled; so much so that the water would spill over.
What then? Rhys thought. Then, she kills me.
“Lady Rinnah, please!” he tried again, beseeching. “Can you understand me at all?” Frustration and no little terror bloomed in his belly as the inya warrior bounced here and there and here again in the treetops, to the accompanying sound of a distant scream of pain from Naida. Rhys could take no more; he had been beaten, he had slain men and lost brothers. His land was in peril, and an insane faery was not going to stop him, not this day. In a fluid motion, he drew and notched one of the broadhead arrows blessed by his mother, and loosed it at Rinnah.
Rinnah bounded backward and caught the arrow neatly in one hand.
“Human, do you know why I have been placed here?” she asked, cocking her head to the side mockingly. She rolled her eyes and then answered her own question. “Of course not! I will tell you. I am here because I do not care! I never have and it is my fate that I never will. I have been deemed eternally impartial to everything and anything that transpires outside of the Silver Orchard.”
“But what if the worlds perish, what will happen to you and your orchard then? Won’t you perish along with the rest of us? You have to care about that!”
“Stupid boy! There are far more worlds that the three you know of and that are now embroiled in turmoil. I will take my trees elsewhere should you fools raze these worlds to the ground. The trial of Nestaron has begun!” she cackled. “Three arrows you may fire, I give ye this one for free. Three arrows to hit me square, and I will give the Eternal Branch to thee!”
This stopped Rhys in his tracks. He had thought he would have to shoot targets, fire from horseback or some other task against his skill and prowess with a bow. The look on Rinnah’s face was mad, but he did not believe she was lying.
“What happens if I fail?” he called up to the inya, who was now sitting on a branch dangling her legs.
“Why, I flay you alive and feed you to my horse; of course, of course!”
The jape set Rinnah off into another cackling fit. She lay back on the branch and kicked in the air. This was insanity, and Rhys had no choice but to play along. If he failed, he knew Naida would be brokenhearted. If he died, she would know, and give herself to the cambion for a quick end, like Minerva had. Another sound came over the walls, the beating of drums in the distance. They seemed far away, but without seeing, he could not tell for sure. However, Rhys was sure that it was Mordred’s hosts.
“Damn you, Rinnah! I do not have time for these games!” Rhys cried, and drew an arrow. Rinnah looked expectantly at him, daring him with her eyes to try the shot. He loosed, and the arrow flew; he was sure he could not miss, faery or nay. The arrow drilled fully half its shaft length into the trunk of the tree on which Rinnah had been standing an instant before. Rinnah laughed; she was now hanging upside down from a tree thirty feet away. Her winged horse whickered loudly, sharing in the mirth. Impossible, Rhys thought. Nothing moves that fast; or at least, nothing should.
“One down, two to go, Rhys of Gascogne! Then I skin you, that’s what I’ll do,” Rinnah sang. Rhys said nothing, and drew another arrow. He tried something different this time; he plucked an apple from the ground, and threw it at Rinnah, who caught it neatly.
“Yummy, thanks for the treat, but bribery won’t work on me!” She danced upon a branch that should not have been able to support her weight.
“You are welcome, Rinnah; have another!” Rhys loosed as he spoke, hands moving so fast to notch and loose that he was a blur of crimson and gold, his tunic flapping around him. The arrow left his bow like a thunderbolt, cleaving through the air toward the crazed guardian of the branch. Again, the arrow found nothing but the trees, and Rinnah was gone, dancing madly across the grass like an entertainer. How long had she been here, Rhys wondered. Not just here, but all the other places when the orchard had been found. So many attempted heroes, so many times defeated, none worthy to be Nestaron. The horse looked at him with what he perceived to be hungry eyes.
In the distance, a desperate scream came, the drums boomed, and Rhys felt that all his existence had led to this moment, his moment of death and failure. The horse whinnied, and then he knew. How he could not say, but he knew how to beat this opponent. It was how he had felt when he knew Naida could find this place; it was like the memory had always been with him, but was not his own.
He notched his bow, and loosed his last arrow.
Chapter Thirteen
Newport, Cornwall, England
Erasmus rode near the head of the three thousand mounted soldiers and militia the forces of Avalon had managed to gather together.
At the very front, mere feet from where his horse trotted in line, were the combined glories of the twelfth and thirteenth Glastennings, all six of the regal-looking women riding abreast, clad in silver and gold. They gleamed in the light, as behind him did the lances and spears of the horsemen. How Morgan le Fae had managed this feat in a day was beyond the ken of a valet like Erasmus, but he was proud that he had been believed and not dismissed as a lunatic.
Six miles from Camelot, they had noticed the clouds growing dark in the distance. No doubt, said Le Fae; it was the forces of Oberon and Mordred combined; an evil alliance so foul they polluted the very air. Erasmus felt his heart quail at the thought of fighting such a terrible army with just the forces at the disposal of Avalon.
“Damn it, Rhys, I hope the afterlife is treating you well. I know your old teacher could use your sword at his side today,” Erasmus muttered to himself under his breath, so no over-attentive soldier would hear him. It was as he spoke these words that the head of the column came out of the southern road which was flanked on both sides by heavy forests, and into the open plain of Camelot Vale. What lay before Erasmus astounded him. In the distance lay Camelot to the west. To the north, he could see the black banners of Mordred, the thrice-cursed villain, and his army of demons and wild men. Yet, most surprising of all, was the stunning sight of the mighty force to the east, at his guess five thousand strong with many knights and soldiers in mail. They bore the banner of Camelot and King Arthur, and even from this distance, he could see the noble king himself, riding at the head of his forces atop a white steed. Among the force he could see many strange warriors who l
ooked like women, but were too wondrous and strange to be humans. Aboard chariots they were, and the force was at the gallop, spearing like a bolt of sunlight toward the encroaching dread of the blackness.
“It’s a bloody miracle!” he said, and completely forgetting to mutter this to himself, he near shouted it. There was a ripple of cheers from the soldiers around him.
Morgan le Fae turned on her horse.
“Soldiers of Avalon, men of England, King Arthur rides forward into battle. Queen Mab’s own chieftain, Titania and her Amazonians, ride with him. Shall we allow our lord and lady to fight alone?” she cried.
“Nay!” came the response from a thousand throats.
“Then let us fight! For Avalon!” Morgan yelled, and wheeling on her horse, led her own warriors into the charge. Hooves thundered and voices were raised in clamor; a last denial of the long night. If that day was to be the last of the realm of free men, then the free men of England would not go quietly. The charge of Avalon met and ran parallel with the charge of the Knights of The Round Table and their army.
Now that they were closer, Erasmus, bent low over the neck of his horse with his nicked and dented old sword drawn, could see that the chariots were driven by winged beings. “So there really are faeries. They are real after all!” he said, although only his horse could now hear him.
The magical chariots forked away to the east at speed, spying some line in the forces of Mordred that drew them. Ahead, the army of Mordred also broke into a run. They were less than a bowshot distant, but neither force fired arrows. Mordred’s army were mainly on foot, but outnumbered the forces of light, at least three to one, by Erasmus’ ken. He could see now the black-armored forms of Mordred’s guard, the brightly colored woad of the Celt and Pict forces; the grim, bearded warriors that came by long ships from the far north over the sea, and scores of ash faced beings with red eyes, black cowled monstrosities and fell, demonic figures. Over their heads swooped great bat-like creatures, many strides across in wingspan, and as they flew, Erasmus felt the clutching hand of terror attempt to sap his courage and turn his tail.
“Never!” Erasmus roared, and that was the last word he found before the clashing, thunderous charge met the impenetrable shield wall of Mordred’s army. His horse barreled into men alongside many others, and he swung his sword over and over, hewing and slashing. He was aware of the battle around him only vaguely through his helm; he heard the black beasts in the air screaming most terrible; fire bloomed in the heavens and he knew not if it was for good or ill. He slashed a Pict in the face, blocked an axe blow with his heavy wooden shield, which splintered and broke. Erasmus yelled in pain and struck back at his assailant; yet his horse reared and threw him backward.
Then, terror truly took him. Standing before Erasmus was the fell and huge figure of Mordred the Usurper, the death-bringer to so much of England. The demon who had slain Rhys, Erasmus reminded himself. He gathered his courage, for now was surely the moment of his doom. Mordred hefted easily in one hand a huge hammer that would have taken Erasmus two hands to wield.
“Mordred, you cur! I’ll not sell my life cheaply to you! For Camelot!” Erasmus roared, and brandished his sword. Mordred merely looked at him, amused.
“Stand aside, friend. I think this fight is mine,” said a great and deep voice behind him. Erasmus dared not look, but did as he was bid. The warrior who strode into the fray was clad in gold, with a billowing white cloak. His sword was drawn, and as the sun caught it, Erasmus was no longer afraid.
“Excalibur, by my stars!” he said, and then the battle was begun in earnest. Father against son, king against usurper, fae against demon, and man against man.
Chapter Fourteen
Camelot
The arrow flew straight and true; the many hours of practice to hone his skill served Rhys well. This time, though, it flew not toward Rinnah, who had been madly ready to dodge away again and then undoubtedly slay Rhys where he stood, but toward the beautiful winged white horse. Rinnah screamed with rage.
“Nooooo!” she screeched, and it sounded like the sound of many voices in one.
The faery warrior dived with her preternatural speed, flinging herself down in front of the speeding arrow. The broadhead slammed into her breastbone, changing the course of her flight and dropping her to the ground in a heap. Rhys put his bow aside, and ran to where Rinnah lay before her horse, which whinnied and shook its forelocks. The faery warrior looked up at him with dying eyes; beautiful red irises set in eyes that brimmed with tears of what struck Rhys as happiness. The bowshot he had hit her with had been straight and true to her heart. She tried to speak, and sparkling blood came to her lips.
“Thank you, Dragon Prince. Nestaron has finally come to free me from my wretched duties. Hail, thrice hail,” she whispered, and then she spoke no more. Rhys was unsure as to what would happen next, but then the strangest thing he had seen in those many days of wonder and magic began to take place. Rinnah’s body began to fade, as did the winged horse. They seemed to grow together, and the orchard itself glowed with a puissant light that dazzled his eyes. He could see many things all at once; the battle beyond the walls, King Arthur battling valiantly with Mordred at the heart of it, and to his surprise, he could see Gawain of Sheffield and John of Leeds and Thomas of Manchester in strange white armor at his side. He saw Naida, his beautiful Niada, dueling to the death with the unholy cambion. The undead thing seemed to gain the upper hand, but then with a spell that shattered the very reality of his body, Naida destroyed him utterly. He erupted into a million fiery pieces that withered into ash and scattered on the gentle breeze. The orchard merged together around him, forming a great and singular tree that bore silver apples and boasted shining, twinkling leaves, and at the very same moment Rinnah’s body, her essence itself, was forged into the Eternal Branch.
“So, she was not just the defender of the branch, she herself was part of the Lifetree!” Rhys exclaimed, and from behind him came a voice, powerful and regal, yet bearing a fatigue that he felt would crush a mere mortal such as him.
“Aye, Rhys of Gascogne, that she was. But speedy now, place the Eternal Branch on the Lifetree! I have brought Galasriniel to you, to earth itself, but doing so has made my life short. Haste!” the voice said. Rhys turned to see the hazy image of the great queen of the faeries, seated on a high throne, but wracked with the agony of shifting an entire region of her world into his own. He sprang forward at her command, clutched the Eternal Branch to his breast and then leaped through the portal to join her in the throne room before turning to run to the Lifetree. He wondered how he would attach the branch to its trunk, but the tree moved as if it were a living animal and opened a hole in its bark to accept his offering.
“In the name of Camelot, Eon and Avalon, I present the Eternal Branch,” he said, the words seemingly coming to his lips unbidden. “At this the great alignment of all our worlds, I am Nestaron! Lhûgernil, the Dragon Prince, Rhys ab Tywysog, the first of his name.” He plunged the branch into the tree, and was knocked flat by an immense shockwave that filled the room. Across time, space and the walkways between all worlds, the wave rippled, and as it roiled and broiled reality, doors began to close, throwing him out of Eon and back to Earth. Flat on his back, Rhys could only look up in wonder as the sky raced with colors, coalescing into a mirror of purple.
The faerie queen—for it was Mab herself—spoke again, and this time her voice was power itself, thunder and storms.
“Oberon of Arcadia, I summon thee in the name of Eon and Earth to answer for your crimes! Oberon, come forth! I, Queen Mab, do so command this of thee!”
Rhys managed to stand, despite the heavy weight of magic in the air, and in doing so, he saw Naida running toward him. The din of battle and Queen Mab’s thunderous words drowned out their happy words of reunion, and though the chronicles would write much of what transpired between those lovers in later days, neither one would tell of what they said at that moment. They embraced, and holding hands, took to th
e battlements. Below the different forces were arrayed at bay, to their left, the north and Mordred. To the right, the south, Arthur and Avalon. Above, in the skies that were a mirror, there was the great and terrible reflection of Oberon. His face was a wry smile, his pale skin and high hairline made a haughty countenance that gazed down on all the destruction he had wrought with contempt and pleasure.
“Mab, my queen, I trust to hear words of your surrender,” His voice boomed, as mighty as Mab’s own. “Mordred and Arcadia are victorious; you must see!”
Rhys saw that it was so. Though the forces of light were fighting valiantly. There were simply too many foes, and they were slowly and inexorably being surrounded by the black legion.
Mab spoke again, and this time, her voice was close, tired and present. Rhys and Naida turned to see, and there she was, a frail creature in a simple white gown of lace. She smiled at him, and immediately all feelings of worry left his heart at the favor.
“Nay, Oberon my love, nay. We shall not yield, for the Dragon Prince has come. The Lifetree is renewed, and Eon will flower forevermore.” She placed her right hand on the Lifetree, and the tree responded to her touch, glowing brightly with an inner fire.
The moment Mab touched the Lifetree, there was a great wailing from the battle, and a bellow of rage and frustration from mighty Oberon.
“Impossible! I cannot lose this day!” he cried, but the trepidation in his voice gave lie to his words. Across the battlefield, great chasms split the earth open wherever the forces of Arcadia stood. Drow companies disappeared by the legion; goblin war bands spat and cursed as they were dragged into the bowels of the earth by invisible hands. The human forces staggered to keep their ground amongst the uproar, but the fae chariots, imbued with the power of the Lifetree itself took to the air, soaring over the battlefield and smiting the airborne terrors of Oberon and casting them down into the pit.
