Ruins of Camelot
G. Norman Lippert
Copyright © 2011/2012 G. Norman Lippert & Aleron Books
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-105-27449-7
Cover model: Kayla Marie Cromer
Photographed by Khiem Hoang
Map
Dedication
For everybody who has ever asked that most essential of all questions: “Do I have what it takes?”
Prologue
Gabriella hit the stairs at a full run and took them two at a time. Darkness met her as she followed the curving steps upwards towards a second landing. Here, nooks lined the hallway, each illuminated with a band of moonlight from an arrow slit. Merodach's footsteps clattered behind her, approaching quickly. Gabriella pelted along the landing and ducked into the furthest nook. She threw herself up against the shallow stone wall, gasping for breath.
Behind her, unseen, Merodach's footsteps knocked onto the landing, where he seemed to stop.
"This is good sport, Princess," he panted, and giggled lightly. "But I fear it cannot end well for you. Come out and give yourself up. It is the best you can hope for."
He began to pace slowly forwards. She heard him, knew that he had his sword raised, ready to cut her down the moment he discovered her. She pressed back against the wall of the arrow nook, trying not to breathe.
"Do you know?" the villain mused thoughtfully as he approached. "It just occurs to me. With your father dead, you are no longer a mere princess. Do you feel special, my dear? It is official. You are the last Queen of Camelot. Congratulations," he said silkily, "Your Highness."
With a dark shock, Gabriella realised that Merodach was right. If Herrengard had indeed been breached—and she had no doubt that it had—then her father was dead. She was the last of the line. Whatever remained of the Kingdom, it was hers. The realisation did not hearten her.
"Your child is dead," Merodach breathed, relishing the words. "Those that were meant to protect him are destroyed. Everything that you fight for, Queen, all of it… is in ruins. Why continue to resist? There is nothing left for you. Come out. You are the last ruler of Camelot, and as such, you must die. But I can make it quick. Soon, you can join those whom you have failed. Come out and face me. Die like a queen, and I will not even turn your body over to the appetites of my troops. It is only fitting. And admit it. You desire this…"
Gabriella's eyes were glassy in the dimness. Her enemy was nearly upon her now. She nodded to herself once. Slowly but resolutely, she stepped forwards, turned past the iron candelabra, and faced her nemesis.
"There," he said, and smiled sympathetically. "That is better, is it not?"
He raised his sword, positioned its tip just above her breastplate, inches from her throat, and began to thrust.
Chapter 1
Two men on horseback emerged from the trees, blinking in the low, copper sunlight. The man in the lead was tall, dark-skinned, and bare-armed. He halted his horse, and it immediately dipped its head, nodding wearily.
The second man reined his own horse and raked his fingers through the tangle of his short red beard. “Where are we now?” he asked, pushing his helmet back from his brow and squinting in the sudden brightness.
The dark-skinned man dismounted and led his horse into the shushing field grass. His eyes darted around with keen interest. The clearing angled sharply upwards to a rocky plateau, which cut across the blinding glare of the sunset. The man touched the hilt of a short sword on his belt but did not grip it.
“Step lightly, Thomas,” he commented. “These uncharted lands are ripe for bandits.” Behind him, his companion slid off his horse and stood next to it warily. After a moment, the two began to work their way carefully up the slope of the clearing.
They found the plateau reinforced with a low wall of brick and stone. The wall ran in both directions, fortifying the hilltop and turning it into a long rampart, an ancient road, choked with field grass and brush. The first man led his horse through a breach, onto the surface of the road, where he stopped and shaded his eyes from the sunset's glare. Thomas joined him there and pulled his leather helmet from his head with an impatient sigh.
"Where are we now, Yazim?" he asked again.
The taller man, Yazim, nodded slowly towards the northern length of the forgotten highway. His companion followed his gaze, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it again. He raised his head slowly as his eyes widened.
Beyond and above the nearby trees, hazy with distance, rose the spires of an ancient castle. Its conical roofs were broken, revealing the bones of their rafters. Vines clothed the crumbled walls, creeping into the windows and twining the flag staffs.
Yazim dropped his hand from the hilt of his sword. "The ruins of Camelot," he finally answered, gazing up at the silent, ruined castle.
The two camped in the middle of the ancient road. Yazim built a fire whilst Thomas went in search of food. Two hours later, with the bones of a rabbit lying strewn around the crackling fire, the two sat on their packs and stared at the dark hulk of the castle. Moonlight lit half of it, painting it in cold, blue tones. The other half raked the sky, black as pitch against the stars. No lights burnt from within.
"How can you be sure?" Thomas asked quietly.
Yazim shook his head. "What else could it be? Would we not have known of another kingdom worthy of such a headstone?"
Thomas nodded doubtfully. "But Camelot… it's been centuries since the end of the great kingdom. Its history has been lost forever. Some scholars say that such a place never even existed."
Yazim sighed. "Your greatest error, Thomas, is in trusting the accounts of men who speak knowledgeably about things they have never seen. It is the one thing I have never understood about your people."
"You speak as if you aren't one of us yourself, Yazim," Thomas replied, glancing aside. "And yet I myself have known you almost from birth. We grew up in each other's sight."
Yazim nodded and smiled. "True, but my family comes from far outside the walls of the Kingdom of Aachen. My mother and father have not forgotten the histories that were taught them by their Moorish parents, stories that have come down generation to generation from those who witnessed them. You may trust your scholars, who divine their knowledge from broken pots and dead bones, but I will trust the words of those who saw with their own living eyes."
Thomas shuddered against a hard breeze. The fire buffeted before him, its embers hissing bright red. "So,” he commented, drawing his cloak around him, “you knew this castle would be here?"
Yazim shrugged. "I did not know it, but I am not surprised to find it."
"Tell me, what else do your old stories say about this place? How many of the legends are true? And what happened to end such a great empire?"
Yazim turned to Thomas and grinned, showing all of his teeth in the ruddy glow of the flames. "You would not believe the tales even if I told you, my friend. Our world is too far removed from that of the elder King Arthur and his dwindling descendants. It is not our purview to explore such things anyway. There are none alive in yonder castle to tax, save the bats and spiders that now call it home; thus, our lord will have no interest in it. Neither should we."
Thomas narrowed his eyes and studied his companion. "You do not believe that. I can see it in your eyes. Come. Tell me what you know. We have time before sleep. Amuse me."
Yazim's grin faded, but not completely. He sighed and peered up at the dark hulk of the castle. "It is incredible, is it not, that such an edifice was never claimed by another kingdom? What would you make of that?"
Thomas frowned. "It is too remote. It would serve no purpose as either a fortification or a seat of power."
"Not now perhaps," Yazim agreed thoughtfully, "but
in ages past, things were different."
Thomas leant back on his elbows, looking out over the ancient highway. A few paces away, the horses stood huddled in the dark, mere outlines against the starry sky. "How different?" he prodded.
Yazim slowly shook his head. "This was Camelot," he said simply, "the kingdom of the mighty and noble King Arthur. In those days, this was the very centre of the world. In those days, kings cared less about such things as commerce and politics, seaports and trade treaties. Back then, there was such a thing as honour."
"We have honour now," Thomas commented, glancing back at his friend with a wry smile.
"We have respect," Yazim countered, turning serious. "King Julius and his sons command the tribute of many nations, yes. But respect is not the same as honour. Nor are tributes and taxes the same as loyal service.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed in the darkness. Thomas remembered that his friend’s family were not citizens of Aachen by choice, but by conquest. The grass sang restlessly as both men stared into the fire. Finally, Yazim shook himself faintly and went on. “The histories tell us that Camelot was very different. Those who served Arthur and his line did not do so out of fear, but privilege. Back then, the King's men fought in the name of good, not profit. Wars hinged on nobility and right, not the mere expansion of power."
"Be wary," Thomas warned, half-smiling. "Some would call such talk treasonous."
"Inside the walls of the city, yes. Out here, I expect that older rules apply."
Thomas nodded agreeably. The wind gusted along the ancient road, carrying leaves into the air and shushing in the grass. The moon stared down on the distant castle. Far off, a wolf barked and then howled.
"So what else?" Thomas asked after a long silence. "What else do your stories say about that time? How else was it different?"
Yazim didn't answer right away. Finally, with a sigh, he said, "In the days of Camelot, battle was not fought with the sword alone. It is considered foolishness now, but the time of Arthur the King was also the time of Merlinus the Sorcerer. There were wizards in those days. Back then, there was such a thing as magic."
Thomas hunched his shoulders as the wind gusted again, turning cold. He peered up at the castle. Its dark windows glared back down at him, empty but somehow watchful. "Do you believe that, Yazim?" he asked quietly.
Yazim turned to his friend and smiled. "Look at yonder castle," he said, "and tell me that you do not."
Thomas shuddered. The night had grown dank and restless around them. He sat up and prodded the fire with his boot. Orange sparks swirled into the wind like flocks of startled birds.
"Tell me how it all ended."
"I cannot," Yazim answered soberly, "for no one knows."
"Some amusement you are," Thomas replied.
Yazim was quiet again. Finally, he said, "I can tell you the beginning of the end if you wish."
Thomas hunched closer to the fire. He glanced back at his friend. "Is it true?"
Yazim shrugged. "It is a story. Many believe it is true. I admit, I once doubted it myself. Now… I am not so sure."
Thomas nodded. "Tell me."
Yazim drew a deep breath. "It begins long after the golden age of King Arthur," he said sombrely. "Much had changed since the days of the noble Round Table. With no empires large enough or bold enough to rival it, the Kingdom had grown complacent and indulgent. Ancient traditions were traded for whims, so that the integrity of rule was weakened with every succeeding generation. Few who had lived among the Kingdom of Arthur would have recognized it by the time the last King ascended his throne. And yet there was still nobility there, scattered along the line of Arthur like golden threads dispersed in an increasingly dull tapestry. One of those golden threads was a girl, the daughter of the last King of Camelot. Her name... was Gabriella."
The girls giggled. At nine years old, it seemed to Gabriella that her friends were always giggling, and it annoyed her. She turned and glared at them in the shadow of the bushes, her own face almost comically grave. She did not shush them. Her father had taught her that the noise of shushing carried even further than whispering. Rhyss and Constance bit their lips and grinned. Gabriella turned back towards the bushes and peered through the leaves.
The others stood near the brook, in the shadow of the castle bridge, tossing stones or sitting in pools of sunlight. There were four of them, two boys and two girls. Gabriella knew their names for they were her schoolmates. Their clothes were better than the rags worn by the peasants, but not quite as grand as her own gowns. The oldest of the boys, the only one not born of nobility, wore a plain linen tunic and belt. He would have looked like one of her father's court fools if his colours weren't so drab. He skipped a stone across the surface of the brook and pointed at it, grinning back at the others.
"Wait," Gabriella whispered, holding up a hand to her friends.
"Let us do it now," Rhyss rasped excitedly, fingering a small leather pouch. Gabriella shook her head, and none of the girls moved.
Behind them, the school bell began to toll. It rang pristinely over the hilltop, echoing down into the narrow valley. The children around the brook didn't look up, but they began to move disconsolately, straightening and brushing themselves off.
"Now?" Constance whispered urgently. "Class is starting. We must get back!"
"Hush," Gabriella said quietly, her hand still raised, palm out. They were nervous and impatient, as always. Gabriella, however, had a sense about these things. "Wait…"
The boys were on the opposite side of the brook. They began to cross, hopping idly on the stepping stones. Their female playmates waited, hands on hips, parodies of their mothers. When the boys reached the near bank, Gabriella dropped her hand.
"Now!" she rasped.
As one, Rhyss, Constance, and Gabriella leapt from their hiding place. Rhyss flung open her leather pouch, releasing a small cloud of dust. All three girls blew into the dust as fiercely as they could, and the dust transformed into a sudden, hard wind. It rushed through the bushes, riffled the grass that bordered the brook, and pushed all four of their classmates backwards. Three of them fell into the brook, splashing in the cold, shallow water. The oldest boy, the one in the linen tunic, stumbled but managed to keep his feet in the sparkling brook. He looked around sharply and spied the three girls in the bushes.
Rhyss and Constance exploded into fits of giggles, covering their mouths with their hands. Instantly, they spun and began to bolt up the hill towards the tolling school bell. Gabriella lingered for a moment. The three children that had fallen into the brook were clambering noisily to their feet, the girls squealing and making themselves even wetter as they scrambled, the boy red-faced and grim. The fourth boy looked up at Gabriella and unexpectedly smiled.
Gabriella turned and began to run. She threaded nimbly through the bushes and pushed into the sunlight of the hill. She was halfway up the slope when someone tackled her from behind, driving her down into the tall grass and pinning her. She bucked, rolled over, and found herself looking up into the face of the boy in the linen tunic. His hair hung down in his face, and he was still grinning.
"Let me go, Darrick! Get off me!"
"That was Whisperwind powder," Darrick replied amiably. "Where'd you get it? You thieve it from the Magic Master's supply cupboard? Or do you have your own cache of such things up at the castle?"
"Get off me! How dare you?! I'm the King's daughter!"
"I won't tattle on you if you get me some," Darrick said, growing serious. "Just a little. One pouch."
"I'll call my guard!"
Darrick smiled confidently. "Go ahead then."
The school bell stopped tolling. Its last peal echoed into silence. Gabriella was furious, but they both knew she would not call to her guard. Treynor would surely whip Darrick soundly for daring to touch the Princess, but he would also report to her father that she had slipped away from his watchful eye again and sneaked off to play a prank on her schoolmates. She fumed up at Darrick in the green shadow of the fie
ld grass. His smile grew thoughtful.
"Let me go—" she hissed, squirming, but then, suddenly and for no apparent reason, he dipped his head towards her. His lips pressed against the corner of her mouth, firmly and clumsily but quick as a snake. The next moment, he was gone. She heard his footsteps thumping away towards the school.
Gabriella pressed her palm to her cheek, covering the memory of his lips, her mouth open in a small O of angry surprise.
"Gabriella!" a voice called sharply. It was Treynor, irritated and worried, of course. Gabriella scrambled to her feet in the grass and ran towards the rear entrance of the stone building atop the hill. Beyond it, the castle loomed over the trees, poking its spires at the sky. Treynor spied Gabriella and scowled. His dark eyes spoke volumes as she pretended not to notice him.
Darrick was already inside of course.
"What does it mean to be a princess?" Gabriella asked that evening, leaning on the side of the tub.
"Chin up," her nurse, Sigrid, instructed, hefting a small bucket of foaming water. Gabriella lifted her chin dutifully, and Sigrid poured the water down the back of Gabriella's head. It was warm, pasting her hair to her neck and shoulders in dark blond ribbons.
"It means being the daughter of the King," Sigrid answered, clunking the bucket to the floor and retreating to the vanity.
"That's a boring answer," Gabriella said, leaning back against the slope of the tub and flicking her finger at a raft of suds. "That's not what I mean."
"Pity it's the truth," Sigrid commented, selecting a tall bottle of perfumed oil. Gabriella grimaced at it and stuck out her tongue.
"Everyone thinks it's so grand to be the Princess, but what's so special about it? Father says that in the old days, princesses didn’t even get to go to school with the noble children or anyone else. They learned everything from tutors and barely even left the castle. Even now, I’m lucky if I am allowed to walk to the school with Treynor, rather than ride in a carriage with four guards. All the ceremony and pomp, it’s all just like a mask I wear. It doesn’t have anything to do with me. I could just as easily have been born to the potter or the miller. I could have been born a peasant."