The New Age Saga Box Set

by Timothy A. Ray

  Windel ignored him and turned to the three knights standing flabbergasted by their struggling king’s side. “Remove one of the cell doors, place it over that damn hole, and stack as many ale barrels as you can on top of it. I want guards posted. Nothing comes back up through that floor! Move!” the aide hollered at them and after a brief pause to look at John, ran to see that it was done. “You there, fetch the clerics to tend to the wounded. Have them see to the inmates after they check you all over.” The Guardian didn’t even look at John for confirmation, he realized who was in charge.

  “You can release him now,” the elf told the Guardians, who’s hands were gently removed, but were slammed back as their king thundered forward.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I am the King of Lancaster, and when I give a command, you fucking follow it!” he stormed, eyes blazing.

  Windel nodded in understanding and resolved to his fate. “You want to hang me? Do it. At least you’ll live to see it done. Who am I? You told me that I was your Chief Aide and to act accordingly. That includes saving your life.”

  “That man killed my father and he’s getting away!” he roared, despite the young elf’s words; his fury not hearing any of it.

  “With how many of the enemy between? You’re unarmored and they’d cut you down before you’d reach the cavern floor. He is gone,” Windel replied coolly.

  Captain Reyes stepped into view, having just arrived. “Sire, if you’d like, I can have this elf arrested until the courts can deal with him.”

  The prospect was tempting, but his anger was beginning to subside, and he was having trouble issuing the command. He hated it with his whole being, but the elf was right. If he went down there and got foolishly cut down, Clint would win, and the castle would fall. He had more responsibilities than avenging his father’s murder. His body trembled as he let out a grievous sigh. “No. He is my Chief Aide and so far, has not done anything but save his king’s life.” The last was said with a low humbled voice; he laid a hand on Windel’s shoulder and squeezed lightly.

  The captain nodded, then turned to meet a messenger that was thundering their way.

  “Sire, the siege has begun!” the newcomer yelled.

  “Of course it has,” he growled, grinding his teeth. If Windel hadn’t shown up when he did, the castle would have already fallen. Those creatures could have stormed the drawbridge gates and the army would be welcomed in with open arms. That, or he’d be dying in the cave below while the first attacks commenced.

  He forced his fury away and tried to still his mind. Refocusing his anger, he turned and began barking orders. If the enemy wanted a fight, he would give them one. He’d kill every last one of them, then track down the traitorous pig that had murdered his father.

  War was upon them and he went to meet it.

  II

  “Knights of the Realm!” he roared across his Round Table. “Once again I come before you to beckon your sword.” Some of his knights pounded the table in response and he waved them off with one hand. “The time has come to purge forever the menace that plagues our land. You have all fought with me; our swords have spilled the same blood in the defense of our homeland. I know that each one of you are honorable and valiant, that you will stop at nothing to cleanse away this evil and protect the innocent!”

  The assembled knights roared with consent.

  “My brothers, I wish I could say this was not about my daughter,” he spoke loudly, eyes diverting to the queen coming around the table to stand by his side. He pulled her chair out for her and she proudly took a seat. Taking a position behind her, he gripped her shoulders, and continued on, “those cowardly bastards snatched my defenseless little girl right out from beneath our noses! They waited in shadows until she went out for her midnight ride and ambushed her as the cowards they are. They hog-tied her and fled in the night, like rats making for the sewers.”

  “My Knights of the Realm, I ask that you ride with me once more. Not only to see her returned but to show these cowards what happens when you wake the sleeping dragon! That to spit in the face of one elf is to spit in the face of us all! That no attack, whether upon my family or yours, will go unanswered without swift retribution! We did not ask for this war, but we will not cower behind our castle walls while it rages around us. You are my knights, my friends, and I ask you to help me take this cowardly act and shove it right back down their throats! What say you?”

  He didn’t have to ask; he already saw the heat of battle in their flushed faces and roaring mouths. They leapt to their feet as one and pounded the table, hollering their agreement. He nodded at their support—grateful. “Thank you, my friends. Now, let’s hunt these bastards down and slay them to the last man! Unfurl the black flag. There will be no mercy given; no quarter taken! They will all die, or we will join our ancestors in the afterlife!” he bellowed.

  Amysta rose, her brilliant crown flickering with torchlight, seemingly alive. He met her eyes and they shared a brief moment together. His blood was pumping, his urgency to be on the move overriding his senses. “I will get her back, I swear.”

  “I know you will,” she replied with a soft smile. She then kissed him on both cheeks and ran a hand through his hair. “Come home with her or not at all.”

  “My Queen,” he bowed his head and turned for the chamber doors. The rest of his knights were already departing to the stables; they would ride at once.

  Revan approached as he exited the hall. “My Lord, my druids are prepared to depart. I myself am packed and ready to go.”

  He shook his head. “I appreciate the gesture, but I need you here. General Jade knows nothing about magic and he’ll need your help organizing our defenses. Make sure that nothing jams the cogs of the machine we must get running. I’m sure your druids will acquit themselves well without your supervision.”

  “You know, maybe it’s fortunate that your daughter was kidnapped,” Revan spoke coldly.

  His steps faltered, and he came to a fuming halt. “Want to say that again?”

  The magister bowed his head. “A couple of days ago your attempts to have the army mustered was met with the High Council’s defiance. You and I both know what’s going on out there and those fools would have left us defenseless when the enemy hordes arrived.”

  “You think that my daughter must be sacrificed—?” he began, angering filling his heart and causing his hand to grip the hilt of his sword even tighter.

  “What I’m saying, is that young Isabella might have just saved us all,” Revan interrupted.

  His anger was growing unhindered. Despite the wisdom behind the druid’s words, to suggest that his daughter needed to be kidnapped to rouse the Elven Nation to war was beyond infuriating. “If you value your life, never repeat that again—ever.”

  Revan eyed him briefly, then bowed his head. “As you wish, Sire.” They walked for a few steps before the druid continued. “The messenger from Lancaster has asked to speak with you before you depart.”

  “The longer I wait, the further they get,” he snapped; he’d wasted enough time already. He was beyond furious with the druid and wanted little more to do with the elf before he left.

  “Won’t take but a second, my Lord,” the High Magister insisted, motioning the timid human forward, acting like he hadn’t heard; he was pushing it.

  He rounded on the man. “What?”

  “Your Majesty, I have just received a message from home via messenger pigeon. It is with much grief and regret that I inform you that my King, Lord Constantine, has died,” the youth said, looking like he’d burst into tears at any moment.

  He’d met the man many times, and the news of his friend’s death pained his heart, almost making him forget his anger—almost. “I assume John is now your King?”

  The messenger nodded.

  “He’ll make a good one; he has his father’s strength and good will. How did he die?” he asked, motioning the man to walk with him as he continued on to the stables. Damn druid was right;
this was important enough to hear.

  “Murdered, my Lord,” the man responded. Erik just realized, he didn’t know this person’s name; came with the territory.

  His High Magister cut in. “Did they catch the fiend responsible?”

  He shook his head with frustration. There was a constant danger that came with their station and you never got accustomed to it. He’d made many enemies, some only recently, who’d like to drive a dagger into his back. When he thought of Constantine, he remembered the peaceful proud man and couldn’t imagine who hated him enough to do him in.

  The messenger had waited until the king looked at him to continue. “I have been told to warn you of a mage going by the name of Merlin. He met with the king before his death and departed the castle that very night. He also kidnapped the king’s second son, Tristan, and his fiancé, Princess Willow of Griedlok. I’ve been asked to request that you hold one or all if found and communicate quickly their apprehension.”

  “Did you say Merlin?” Revan blurted.

  His mind was heavy; his brain trying to focus as images raged through it. The nightmares—the echoes of other lives—all of it flooded through him unhindered. He’d heard that name before; it echoed within his soul. “Do you know who he’s talking about?” he asked the other elf, his feet unsteady as they walked.

  “As do you. He is the man of both ancient and recent history. An ageless stranger that flits through time, always in times of strife and on the side of good. He did not murder Constantine and if the other two are with him, it’s by choice.”

  “With respect, magister,” the human interrupted. “My King was alive and well when the mage appeared and died shortly after he left.”

  He was only partially listening. His whole body was ringing with the sound of the mage’s name—Merlin. Something larger than him, something ancient, was clawing its way up through his soul; raging to be heard.

  “My Lord. I know you have read about Merlin, he’s in that book you loved as a child; le Morte d’Arthur. You created your Round Table and Knights of the Realm on notions that man helped to create,” Revan told him, ignoring the messenger’s defiance. “He’s been here in the past, helped secure the freedom of the elves who left to live amongst the humans. Surely, your father told you of this?”

  He felt nauseated. His body was tingling—soul howling—mind reeling. He could not tell up from down or walk in a straight line. “It was fiction,” he muttered, reaching out and grabbing a pillar to stay upright.

  “No Sire, King Arthur—soul shook harder—was real. Merlin—what was happening—set Excalibur—the floor was vibrating—in a stone, declaring whoever pulled it would be king. Arthur—he was going to puke—Pendragon—WHAT—your great ancestor, drew the sword as the rightful heir and united all of England under one banner—light was piercing his soul. He was betrayed by his sister who bore the king’s son, Mordred—he was going to scream—who she spirited away until the man became of age. Dressed in golden armor—Gods, what was happening to him—the boy came to claim his rightful place as the heir of Camelot—home—but the boy was evil and Arthur—help me—fought his son’s army in one last battle, dying over his son’s slain body—his nightmares were realized. Excalibur—STOP—was given back to the Nimue for safekeeping and Merlin—PLEASE—disappeared until England would need him again. That’s why he’s here, to help us fight the Phoenix!” Revan finished in a rush.

  His body was shaking; his soul screaming. In agony, it ripped out of his body, and his voice pierced the heavens. Falling to both knees, arms thrown wide, he bellowed with every fiber of his being. It was endless, and his head was exploding.

  “ERIK?”

  “Oh my God, what’s happening?”

  “What did you do?”

  “My Queen?”

  “What the fuck did you do? Answer me, you son of a bitch!”

  “HELP ME!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. The lack of oxygen and the pumping of his heart caused the elf’s vision to fade as he passed out; striking the ground at his stunned wife’s feet.

  III

  “Tristan,” Melissa’s voice called to him. There was a room camouflaged by a curtain on the rear wall of the cavern. He had to know the woman would have a bed. She had insisted that he place Willow upon it but felt like it should be sanitized first. He lay her head down and turned to answer the witch’s call. Kylee remained behind, keeping an eye on Willow, and the curtain slid shut as he strode across the floor.

  Melissa was crouching near the pool in the corner, her fingers sliding across the water’s surface. “You need to see this.” She waved her hand and as he drew closer the ripples began taking the form of a moving picture.

  An elf in regal armor, with a long red cloak and a crown upon his head was walking next to a blue-haired elf with a staff. Following behind was Kindor, one of the messengers that worked in the palace. What was he seeing?

  Voices drifted from the water’s surface and he heard the furious voices of the walking men. They were talking about Merlin. He listened intently to everything said; the distrust he had of Melissa forgotten. The long-eared elf was talking about a King Arthur and Excalibur! Before his eyes, he watched the Elven King stumble, his eyes flare red. Before the other elf had finished speaking, the armored elf had fallen to his knees, his arms wide, howling in agony.

  Arthur!

  “Mine King!” he roared, leaping for the water. He fell into the fluid, the image dispersing with a crash. “No! Mine King needs me! I might not but get to him!” he raged violently. “Arthur!” he howled, his booming voice echoing hard across the cavern.

  “Interesting,” Melissa commented; eyes squinting.

  “Woman, I never wot whom thou are, yet if thou never discover me to mine King, I shall plunge mine sword through thy heart,” he stated, getting to his feet and drawing his weapon.

  “Tristan?” came a voice from his right and a white-haired elf ran into view. “What the hell did you do to him?”

  He waded through the shallow water and rushed the brown-haired woman grinning at him. “I’m warning thou, witch, see me to mine king or die. Mine name is Lancelot du Lac, First Knight of the Round Table, and thou shall not forswear me!” His hand was on her throat, her body thrust against the wall, feet dangling in the air. “Take meself to mine King!”

  Hands grabbed his arms, yanking him to the ground, his grip slipping from the witch’s throat. “Tristan! Stop it!” a voice screamed in his ear.

  He howled with rage, thrusting his arms wide and breaking the forced embrace. “If thou are ‘i league with the witch, thou shall die with her!” he roared, turning on the elven ranger. Stumbling into view was a very beautiful elven maiden. She was barely on her feet, her face ashen. “Thou fiends! What harm hast thou caused such a beautiful maiden, whom looks so much like mine beloved Guinevere! Thou shall surely die by mine sword!” He rounded about and charged the albino elf that was backing away. He lunged in the air and impacted the woman in the chest, driving her to the floor. His sword on her throat, his eyes flaring as he prepared to slice her open.

  A hand touched his face, the touch soft and gentle. Raging, he turned and looked into the eyes of the ill maiden he was defending. He was about to kill one of her torturers; why was she intervening? “I love you,” the woman whispered. Was this Guinevere? It couldn’t be. Yet, her eyes—there was something familiar about those eyes!

  The woman beneath him was struggling, trying to force him off, but he was beyond being moved. His blade was ready; why didn’t he strike?

  “I love you,” the maiden repeated, leaning forward and placing her lips on his.

  The touch of her lips sent shivers down his soul; shaking Tristan free. He struggled to the forefront of his mind and threw the invader back. “Willow?” he asked weakly, breaking from the kiss.

  “Oh, thank the Gods,” Kylee muttered, turning her head in a vain attempt to hide her tears.

  He looked down and saw his father’s sword slowly drawing blood from th
e ranger’s throat. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened to me,” he stammered, dropping the sword and rolling off her.

  Willow was by his side, embracing him. Her sister was sitting up, Melissa kneeling by her side, checking her wound. A cat meowed, and he saw an orange tabby looking at him with sleepy eyes. It yawned and lowered its head back onto its paws.

  “Oi towl yer dis guy wus nuts,” Bleak spoke up from a nearby table, but no one paid the little man any attention.

  “It’s okay,” his lover whispered. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

  “Willow?” his voice broke, and he embraced her hard; breaking into tears. “What’s happening to me?”

  “Your boyfriend just had a past life emerge and take over his body,” the witch pronounced in a clinical way. She was starting to sound more and more like Merlin. What the hell was she talking about?

  “My fiancé almost killed my sister. Is this your doing?” Willow inquired severely.

  Melissa was healing Kylee’s neck as she tried to explain. “To be honest, I just wanted him to hear what the druid had to say about Excalibur. I sensed that something important was going to happen and I’ve learned to trust my instincts. I did not know he’d respond that way; how could I? I knew something was different about him when we first met, but I thought it was the magic of the sword at his side; not the soul within.”

  He couldn’t stop crying, his soul was aching, and the violation he’d felt at being controlled like that shook him to the core.

  “What magical sword? That’s just his father’s blade; an heirloom handed down from father to son, and a gift from my father before them,” Willow pushed, just as confused as he was. “And what past life? What the hell are you going on about?”

  Kylee was shaken, unable to get to her feet, and the grief he felt for what almost happened wracked his body.