Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2)

by Adam Copeland

  “We are done. The Lost Boys will stand down,” Jon de Lorraine said, standing and clasping Patrick on the shoulder. Professional disappointment filled his voice, but personal relief filled his eyes. He jerked his head towards Philip. “He wishes to speak to you.”

  Lorraine ran to inform the Lost Boys. Jeremie remained near his dying leader.

  “Thank you, my brother,” Patrick said, taking a knee near Philip.

  “I have one more thing to give you,” Philip said, and his face screwed up with some effort, “to remember me by.”

  He grunted, and a horrible noise came from his bowels followed by an even more horrible smell. He laughed.

  “Oh, God, Philip, that’s awful,” Patrick said, covering his nose.

  “Nein, das ist gut,” Philip said, his entire body shaking with laughter.

  Patrick joined him in laughing, though his laughter came out nasally as he pinched his nose.

  Philip’s shaking laughs turned to convulsing gurgles. His back arched one last time, and the pain in his face melted away. The light in his green eyes faded, and his pupils relaxed, dilating to twice their size.

  “Goodbye, my brother,” Patrick said, closing Philip’s staring eyes with his good hand. He stood, gripping his broken arm.

  “What do we do now?” Jeremie asked, as if Patrick now led the Lost Boys.

  Before Patrick could respond, a horn blared at the edge of the forest where the harbor road came.

  All eyes turned towards the sound to witness a river of red surcoats and flowing banners carrying the heraldry of Teodorico’s former cardinal office. An endless line of soldiers marched, keeping pace to drums. They must have numbered as many as the Lost Boys had when at full strength.

  “What the—?” Jeremie exclaimed, squinting at the new arrivals who split in two like a serpent’s tongue to surround them.

  “I’m guessing by your reaction you knew nothing of this,” Patrick said.

  Jeremie shook his head.

  “Lucan?” Patrick asked.

  “No, but I’m not surprised,” Lucan admitted while watching the fresh army advance with glittering weapons and armor. “It explains how Teodorico could afford such expensive mercenaries.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeremie asked, frowning.

  “Teodorico had no intention of ever paying you,” Lucan explained dryly. “That’s his personal army from Albano. I’m guessing he planned on the Lost Boys doing all the hard work, then have his men sweep in and take the credit. Of course that would require ‘eliminating’ the Lost Boys.”

  Jeremie’s face turned to a mask of anger. “We are with you. What do we do?”

  “Phalanx,” Lucan said simply.

  “Shield wall,” Patrick translated, and the Lost Boy turned to his comrades and shouted the command.

  As Corbin coordinated the Avangarde with them into a defense, Patrick leaned down and picked up a sword, not sure what kind of help he could offer in his condition.

  A shadow engulfed them from above, followed by an object falling from the sky, crushing Lucan and sending his helmet and spear flying.

  Lilith stood on his back, then used it to launch herself at Patrick.

  #

  Patrick stabbed at her with his sword, connecting solidly, but the force of her assault still sent him sprawling. Pain shot through his arm like lightning.

  Lilith wrapped sinewy talons around his blade, which protruded from her chest. She extracted the weapon with only the slightest of grunts and tossed it aside.

  In a fog of pain, Patrick fumbled through the mud for a weapon, but could not find one within reach. The new enemy crashed against the joined shields of Avangarde and Lost Boys. Lilith spread her wings and in the blink of an eye she stood over Patrick, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him into the air.

  “Beautiful fool,” she said, and opened her mouth near his.

  The sensation of ice water vomiting out of his mouth engulfed him, leaving a growing emptiness inside him. A white mist flowed from his throat into Lilith’s. He felt as if his flesh were slowly deflating, soon to be an empty bag of skin dangling from her hand.

  He clawed at the iron grip at his throat, but to no avail. From the corner of his vision he saw the Spear of Destiny resting on the ground, broken at the shaft, but too far out of his reach. The sounds of battle raged around him.

  His vision swam and his senses reeled. His heartbeat slowed and his feeble strength ebbed. After one last attempt to claw free, his head lolled back skyward. At death’s door, his mind was almost feverish.

  Through the swirling mass of dark storm clouds, he thought he glimpsed bat-winged monsters clashing with bright-feathered angels in gleaming armor and flashing swords. Their collision rent the heavens with thunder.

  Rain pelted his face.

  Is this your will, God? he thought, too tired to ponder whether it was fair. I don’t understand, but I will trust.

  Just as the last bit of his resistance drained away, and he sighed out the last of the mist his body had to offer, Aimeé’s music seemed closer, stronger. It turned to a horn’s blare, bursting in his ears and shaking the earth.

  Lilith faltered, stumbling.

  The earth did indeed shake, but something else was causing the familiar tremor.

  Horse hooves, from cavalry.

  Sunlight burst forth, parting the dark clouds. Out of the forest to his left a group of knights descended upon the field. Patrick did not know these thirty knights who charged with such precision—but surely they had to be men of renown. The bannerman’s long flowing pennon did seem familiar, though. Its red dragon stretched the entire length of the fabric, and it stirred boyhood stories. Next to the bannerman rode a leader in a gold-crown-crested helm. In his hand, held high, he carried a sword with an hourglass hilt Patrick had no trouble recognizing, for he had borrowed it for a brief time.

  To Patrick’s right another group of knights came, this one from the direction of the harbor, carrying heraldry and banners he recognized. The leading men wore the black and white swans of the Avangarde: Sir Wolfgang and Sir Marcus. Between them came Sir Charles, carrying the banner of the Papal Guard, and behind them rode a hundred knights in gold and white.

  The flute music, the horn blasts, and the sound of trembling earth were drowned out by another music: glorious music Patrick could barely describe. In his fevered state he thought he surely imagined it, just as he imagined the fantastical sights accompanying the music. The forest came alive, lumbering forth on roots and crushing the enemy. Every bird and beast of Avalon flowed among their trunks, pouring over the red surcoats. Here a bear dragged a soldier down, there a pack of wolves scattered a squad of spearmen. Raptors dove from the sky to gouge eyes from those attacking the shield wall of defenders. Fairy creatures joined the fray. A giant ogre picked up two red-clad soldiers and banged them together like cymbals. A company of goblins matched swords with startled humans, moss covered trolls waded through the melee swinging massive wooden clubs. Among all flowed fireflies, blinding the enemy.

  Yet Lilith still sucked at his soul, eyes rolled into the back of her head as if the intimate nature of the attack sent her into a state of ecstasy. She fell to her knees, allowing Patrick to touch earth as well. The Spear of Destiny rested almost within reach, but Patrick could not even summon the strength to reach for it.

  Time to go, he thought, and this time the sentiment was not a matter of quitting, but accepting.

  He had no regrets. He had done as the Other had urged; hold out and give hope to his comrades. He had accomplished that much.

  From the corner of his eye a small hand grasped the broken shaft of the Spear of Destiny and lifted it from the earth.

  Lilith’s head suddenly jerked back, disrupting the transfer of mist. Aimeé stood behind her, a handful of Lilith’s hair bunched up in her fist.

  “I don’t think so, Bitch!” she hissed in Lilith’s ear, and made a thrusting gesture.

  The Spear of Destiny burst from
between Lilith’s breasts, spewing ichor and gore.

  She shrieked in agony, releasing Patrick.

  As if in slow motion, Patrick fell to earth and dirt and pebbles bounced as his head struck the ground. His vision narrowed and darkness started to close in around him. His breath came in struggling gasps. His hands twitched uncontrollably.

  Lilith writhed nearby, trying to staunch the flow of dark blood from her wound. Lucan struggled to sit up, though his legs beneath his hips turned at an odd angle compared to his torso. He reached out to Lilith.

  “Lilly, stop,” Patrick heard him plead, though the sound came muffled and surreal in his ears. “Just let go, it’s never too late to find peace. Come with me.”

  For a brief moment, Lilith’s demonic visage shimmered away to reveal a normal woman. A beautiful woman, nude and vulnerable. She reached out to Lucan, but before their fingers touched, the demoness returned.

  “No!” she cried, and took to the air to fly away in an erratic pattern like a stunned bat, fountaining black blood.

  Aimeé was next to him now, shouting his name, but she sounded a thousand miles away. She lifted his head and forced her fingers into his mouth, and she moved them about as if clearing some obstruction there. When she lifted his head, he saw the aftermath of the battle.

  The enemy defeated. The sky clear. The survivors took a knee and bowed to the leader of the mysterious knights who had ridden from the forest.

  Patrick smiled weakly.

  Aimeé was safe. The day was won.

  Darkness closed in, and he knew no more.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Golden sunlight streamed into the room, waking Patrick with its warmth on his face. After a few moments, that caress turned to a stifling heat baking him under the mountains of blankets that covered him. Between that and the headache pounding the inside of his skull, he wished he hadn’t woken at all. He wished to sleep again, but someone in the room snored.

  Corbin leaned back in a chair with his boots kicked up on Patrick’s bed. His head, bandaged with much padding packed against one of his ears, lolled over the back of the chair. His curly blondish locks spilled over the linen wraps.

  Patrick kicked at his boots. “Oi, do you mind? I’m trying to sleep here.”

  Corbin snorted to wakefulness, almost falling over in the chair.

  “You’re awake,” he said sleepily.

  “Thanks to you, wanker.”

  “You’ve been asleep for days,” Corbin pointed out. “We didn’t think you were going to make it, but you pulled through.”

  Patrick wiggled the fingers of his left hand, the only part of his entire left arm that wasn’t splinted. “Aimeé?”

  “She is well,” Corbin assured. “She would not leave your side for the first few days. Only after it was clear you would survive did she allow herself to go help others. Ever since then, we’ve been taking turns watching over you.”

  “Geoffrey?” Patrick continued.

  Corbin shook his head sadly. “Aimeé said he acquitted himself well. A true Avangarde. The cup was returned.”

  Corbin explained all that had happened, filling in the gaps in Patrick’s memory and knowledge. Though never confirmed, the knights who had come to their aid out of the Avalon forests must have been King Arthur and his knights. Patrick had no doubt about it. Though legend stated they would not awaken from their slumber until all of Britain needed them, they had come to the aid of Greensprings.

  “Who is left among us?” Patrick asked.

  Corbin listed the Avangarde who remained, among which were himself, Waylan, Brian, Gregory, Jeremiah, Wolfgang, Marcus, and twenty others.

  Patrick bit his lip and sadly shook his head that only aggravated his headache.

  After a moment of silence, he looked around and frowned. “Where am I?”

  “What?” Corbin laughed. “Rumor has it you snuck in here enough times. You’re in the Hall for Lady Guests.”

  Patrick scoffed. “Damned lies. It was only once. Maybe twice. Why here?”

  “During the battle, Candace went into a panic and started screaming that everyone needed to go to the Hall for Lady Guests. Katherina convinced everyone to do so. Virtually everyone was saved because they were spared from the keep fire.”

  “Katherina and the children are well?”

  “Aye,” Corbin said, “but Greensprings will never be the same again. This building and the Hall for Guests are about all that survive. Every other building is at least half burnt to the ground. The Lost Boys didn’t leave Aesclinn in much better shape.”

  “The Lost Boys? What has become of them?”

  “There are about one hundred left.” Corbin said sadly. “They walk about freely. They did make a final stand with us and denounced the pretender pope. Teodorico, by the way, is locked up on a boat in the harbor. His tent was untouched by the battle, but his people abandoned him. Sir Charles will be taking him back to Rome in chains.”

  Patrick nodded, satisfied.

  “Abbot Herewinus is here again with several of the other former benefactors,” Corbin continued. “They’ve decided to officially close the Greensprings school. The cost to rebuild, plus the fact we tend to attract all manner of villains, suggest that it’s time.”

  Patrick laughed ironically, just short of bitterness. “How do you feel about that? What will become of us, the Avangarde?”

  “It was a dream. A glorious dream,” Corbin replied, “but dreams must end and we must come back to the real world. Many of us, myself included, are going to start a new order to protect Saint Peter’s Orphanage. We’ll be escorting the children back there soon. Wolfgang is going to hang up his sword and return to his home for a deserved rest. Marcus and some others will take up positions in Paschal’s Papal Guard, along with many of the Lost Boys.”

  “What?” Patrick almost shouted, wincing when he almost sat up in bed.

  Corbin smiled. “Aye, Jeremie Le Beau and Jon de Lorraine lead the company. They mentioned Philip had a talk with you. Any idea what that was?”

  Patrick shrugged, smiling.

  “You know, you’re welcome to come with us to Saint Peter’s.”

  “Maybe,” Patrick said, and struggled to sit up, “but first I must see Aimeé.”

  Brother Ambrosius—Brobrosius—burst into the room. “I’m taller than you!”

  Patrick returned his smile. “My friend, you always will be. Do you mind giving me a hand?” With his smile lighting up the room brighter than the sun, Brobrosius helped Patrick dress and then assisted him out the door.

  Just outside the hall, Patrick encountered the Lady Katherina overseeing the packing of several wagons. Willy and Trent assisted her.

  Patrick gave up using Brobrosius as a crutch long enough to embrace the young men and exchange kind words. When they returned to packing the wagon, he limped over to Katherina and leaned heavily on the wagon. Its cargo was a long box.

  “I’m taking Jon home,” she said, touching the casket. “His family should know he was a hero. The reason he was captured was because he held the Lost Boys off at the docks while the fishermen cast off. It was the fishermen who finally delivered word to Wolfgang to bring the army sooner.”

  A glow burned in Patrick’s heart. He laid his hand on the warm wood. “Good for you, Jon. I’ll miss you my friend, but I’m glad you’re going home. Say hello to everyone when you get there.”

  Patrick turned to Katherina. “And you? What will you do after?”

  She squared her shoulders. “I will go to see my mother in Rome, to inform her of my intentions. I plan on going back to our home country to face my uncle. It is time I reclaimed my rightful crown.”

  Patrick froze at the news.

  “It is what I want,” Katherina insisted, “and I must do it alone, with my people. My supporters. I am ready.”

  Patrick nodded somberly. “I wish you the best of luck. I will miss you.”

  They stared at one another for a long while. “Thank you, Patrick—for everything
,” she said at last, eyes sparkling with tears. “You rescued me more than once, and in more than one way. I will never forget you. Thank you for your friendship.”

  Patrick’s vision blurred, as well. “In a certain way, I will always love you.”

  She nodded, and a bittersweet laugh escaped her lips as they embraced. He kissed the top of her head. Even though her fierce hug hurt his broken ribs, he held on to her. His tears ran into her hair.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see finally you can shed tears,” she confessed.

  “It wasn’t an easy road, making that happen.”

  “I know, I know,” she said.

  Eventually they disentangled, and with Brobrosius’ assistance he limped past the blackened, skeletal ruins of Greensprings.

  Next he came across Sir Charles, who distributed orders among knights in gold and white surcoats marked with the papal sigil. The lanky young man no longer seemed the awkward squire. “I see you’ve found employment already,” Patrick said, surprised such a young man would be given such a position of authority so soon.

  Charles smiled and clasped hands with Patrick. “Only temporarily. I’ll be moving on soon to fulfill my family duties.”

  “Oh?” Patrick said, brow furrowed in curiosity.

  “I must go home to the Danemark. I’m a grown man now. A knight. I’ve been in exile far too long at my uncle’s court in Flanders. It’s time to win my father’s throne back.”

  Patrick blinked, jaw dropping. “Throne?”

  “Yes,” Charles explained with a humble smile. “My father was King Canute, assassinated when I was a child.”

  Patrick looked anew at the young man, shaking his head in wonder. He had known Greensprings as a haven for nobles in exile, but today drove the point home.