The Medievals 2 Read online

  “Richard, watch out!” she cries.

  Richard, Loxley, Ivanhoe and El Cid all turn in the direction of the airborne ship, and their eyes go wide.

  “Well that just doesn’t seem fair,” Loxley complains.

  With no time to flee the massive boat, Richard and the others can only turn away, shield themselves, and pray. And Wendolyn says a prayer of her own, conveying all of her energy into the Sorcerer’s Staff. That energy rushes from the end of the staff and then crackles through the air. Just as the ship is about to crash to the ground, Wendolyn’s blastwave hits it, and the ship bursts apart into a million pieces.

  When the ship fails to make its expected impact, Richard, Ivanhoe, Loxley and El Cid all look up in shock and relief as the spintery remains of the boat shower down around them. But before they can celebrate, the saurians are upon them again, and their battle continues to rage.

  “Wendolyn, you must hurry! The Rune’s power grows too strong for me,” Mulan shouts over the whirlwind of debris that is only getting more violent.

  Wendolyn looks to Mulan’s midriff, which still bleeds, taking her strength little by little.

  “Yeah, no pressure, but we can’t hold off these ugly beasties much longer either,” Loxley calls to Wendolyn, and Wendolyn sees that more saurians have joined the attack on Richard and the others.

  The pressure is too great, and it all rests on her shoulders. If Wendolyn can not find her true voice, then soon all of them, including her, will be nothing more than straws in Waldron’s storm.

  As Waldron takes another step toward Wendolyn, she sees that the distance is quickly closing between them.

  She slams her eyes shut.

  Find my voice. Find my voice. Find my voice.

  She desperately repeats the exhortation over and over again, the mantra taking hold of not just her mind, but her lips as well.

  “Find my voice. Find my voice. Find my voice.”

  Just as in the Rune’s Memory Chamber, the depths of Wendolyn’s mind are being plumbed. Only this time, it is not Waldron searching, but Wendolyn. However, the feeling is the same: as if she has been dropped from a high precipice, falling through the air, spiralling through memories.

  Suddenly, a face appears: Bwalen.

  It is her father that she has only come to know in her memories. His visage is calming. His violet eyes belong to her.

  Then another face appears: a beautiful woman with flaxen hair cropped short but for a single strand, the look of a warrior maiden. In the woman’s eyes, Wendolyn can again see her inheritance.

  Then, another face of a woman: her hair is darker, but her features tell the story of a link between her and those who came before.

  Wendolyn realizes that she is seeing the faces of her ancestors. And she recalls the Lady of the Lake listing their names: Bwalen, who came from Ashtel, who came from Mali, then Trandan, then Haren, Gwanlinna, Malici, Balinor, Winnow, and Darden.

  And as those names resonate in her mind, so do their faces, visiting Wendolyn from deep within her ancestral memories. And she feels stronger with each new ancestor that visits.

  Then, a final face. An eternal countenance of wisdom. His beard, sweeping and white. His eyes swimming with a vast power, as if he holds the fate of all creatures within them. Wendolyn has never seen this face before, but she has heard his story many times. And now his story is her story.

  “Merlin,” she whispers.

  As she utters the name of the Sorcerer of Light, Wendolyn’s body shakes, and a soundless thunder strikes her soul. In that moment, the many faces of her ancestors press together into one. And it is as if all the constellations have joined into a single point of light.

  One star. One voice.

  Her true voice.

  Wendolyn’s eyes crash open.

  The light hits her eyes as if for the first time. Her head is clear of the images of death and destruction. And her arms and legs feel warm, as if her dark purpose is being flushed from her veins, replaced by all that is good and bright. And there, standing before her now, is Waldron, ready to strike her down.

  Wendolyn speaks. And on her lips, her mantra is no longer find my voice, but instead…

  “Hear my voice.”

  As she says these words to Waldron, Wendolyn strikes the earth with the ancient staff, and visible waves of sound ripple out into the air, blowing the Rune off his feet and hurling him backward.

  She looks to Mulan, who sinks to her knees with a sigh of relief, now able to rest after her endless defense against Waldron’s storm.

  The Blind Shen nods toward Waldron, saying, “He is yours to finish.”

  Wendolyn approaches the Rune’s prone body and, as she does, he begins to crawl away from her. But it is futile. Wendolyn holds out the staff, releasing a withering barrage of blastwaves upon the Rune. His body spasms there on the ground, drool coming from his mouth.

  “Mercy,” the Rune whispers, managing to roll his body over and look up at her.

  The word hangs there before Wendolyn, a decision she must make. She is reminded of her time in the Memory Chamber, when she had asked Waldron for mercy, a mercy he did not grant her. But she also remembers his story: the soldiers that had burned him, and then branded him with their red hot swords; the villagers who had turned him away, leaving him nothing more than a wandering leper.

  Mercy. The plea sounds in her mind again, and she wonders if Waldron is speaking through her thoughts, trying to control her as he did for so long.

  “There will be no mercy for you,” a voice proclaims, although it is not Wendolyn who speaks.

  Instead, it is Richard, standing next to Wendolyn.

  He has his sword raised high like a dagger, Waldron’s grotesque, pitiful face reflected in its steel. Wendolyn flashes to the moment when Galen held the dagger above the helpless deer in the Cumbrian forest. Only this time, Wendolyn does not intercede, not with voice nor hand. She just stands there, and watches as Richard plunges the blade of his sword into the scarred chest of the Rune.

  An unearthly shriek of pain grabs hold of the sky. Waldron’s cry is met with the cries of a thousand birds, the darklings hovering above their dying master.

  The Rune swallows. He finds his final words of warning for Wendolyn: “They will turn against you. It is who they are.”

  And then an image stabs Wendolyn’s mind: Richard, his eyes wild, presses his hands against Wendolyn’s throat, strangling the life from her. She cannot breathe. She is gasping for air. Her heart is breaking.

  “Wendolyn,” someone says, shaking her loose of the dark vision. It is Mulan, who is now at her side. “Are you okay?”

  She puts her hand to her throat, which is untouched. Then she catches her breath.

  “I--” She starts to tell Mulan and Richard about the haunting image, but then she thinks better of it. “I am fine.”

  “Waldron may be dead, but the battle is not over,” Richard explains as he gestures around them, where the castle and the city are still under assault by at least a hundred saurians. Meanwhile, the soldiers wear the torpid faces of surrender. “Come, we must help them.”

  Wendolyn and Mulan follow Richard as he races toward the moat, where El Cid, Ivanhoe and Loxley continue their fight with the saurians. As Wendolyn moves across the battlefield, she watches as Ivanhoe swings his axe at the scarred saurian, but misses, and the saurian’s tail swats the axe from Ivanhoe’s grip, disarming him.

  But Ivanhoe will not be put off his mission, and he shocks the men around him by attacking the saurian with nothing but his bare fists. The saurian snaps its jaws at Ivanhoe, its teeth nearly finding Ivanhoe’s leg. But Ivanhoe hooks his arm around one of the saurian’s wings and then throws himself onto its back, locking his arms and legs around the beast’s neck.

  The saurian bucks wildly, but Ivanhoe clings to it with all of his might. Then...

  “Red, incoming!” Loxley yells as he fires an arrow at Ivanhoe.

  Impossibly, Ivanhoe grabs the flying arrow from its flig
htpath just over his head and then redirects the bolt into the right ear of the saurian.

  Ivanhoe leaps from the crazed saurian as he shouts with urgency, “Spaniard, your sword!”

  El Cid obliges Ivanhoe, tossing Tizona through the air. Ivanhoe catches the flaming sword and, just as his feet touch the ground, he runs the fiery blade through the neck of the scarred saurian, spitting his final words into its face, “Rot in the hell you came from.”

  Wendolyn and Mulan arrive with Richard just as Ivanhoe pulls the sword from the throat of the beast, and they all watch as the biggest of the saurians slumps to the ground, dead. And in that moment, more than a hundred yellow eyes snap their attention to Ivanhoe: they are angered by the sight of their dead leader. And they unleash a chorus of snarls.

  “Well, now you’ve done it, Red,” Loxley pokes before turning his eyes to Wendolyn. “Think you could whip up one of your magic tricks there?”

  But Wendolyn would not know where to begin. The number of saurians is too great.

  “It will be okay,” Richard assures Wendolyn, clearly sensing her concern. Then, he grabs hold of her hand. “We will fight this together, no matter the outcome. To our last breath.”

  Wendolyn nods, her eyes locking into Richard’s.

  “Brace yourselves!” El Cid shouts.

  Wendolyn looks up to see a dozen saurians dive out of the sky, their snouts aimed at Ivanhoe. And she wonders how they will survive so many beasts at once.

  Then, suddenly, out of the moat flies a humongous bird. Its face has the look of an eagle, although it is far bigger than any eagle she has ever seen. It collides with one of the diving saurians in the air, and hooks its massive beak around the saurian’s neck. And that is when Wendolyn sees that the bird actually has the legs and tail of a lion.

  “Gryphons!” Richard exclaims as it is joined by another of its kind that also flies from the water of the moat.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Until there are at least ten shooting up through the air at the saurians. The gryphons, which equal the size of the saurians, prove a worthy match for the beasts as they engage in an aerial battle, claws and talons meeting in mid-air.

  As more saurians attack and land on the ground in front of Wendolyn and the others, thin vines are next to shoot out of the moat. The green tendrils lasso one of the saurians, pulling its jaw away just before it can sink its teeth into Loxley.

  “El Cid thinks it is the tiny tree people!” the Spaniard says with excitement.

  “You think?” Loxley quips, appearing none too pleased to see an army of Truscans, each one riding their vines out of the moat.

  Looking closer now, Wendolyn can see the portal that has formed on the surface of the moat.

  The Lady Of The Lake has returned.

  And now the reinforcements spill out of the portal and onto the land, ready for battle: truscans, and hoverflies, and gryphons, and more. All of the creatures of the Eternal Forest are rushing into the Realm.

  Suddenly, large boulders launch from the moat and fly through the air, as if they have been catapulted from the other side of the portal. And as the round stones near the saurians in the sky, the boulders unfurl to reveal a bear-like creature with six appendages. And as she sees their faces, like that of an insect, Wendolyn realizes they are bugbears, the creature she had seen in the forest when she fell into the deep hole.

  The bugbears open themselves one by one and, as they crash into the saurians, they sink their claws and teeth into the leathery skin of the beasts.

  Then, as the last of the bugbears flies from the portal, the Lady of the Lake rises up out of the moat.

  “They came for you,” Wendolyn says to the Lady of the Lake.

  “No, they came for you,” the watery woman responds. “They heard your true voice. I just showed them the way.”

  Wendolyn marvels at all of the creatures from the Eternal Forest that came to help defend the Realm. She sees a gryphon tangle with a saurian in mid-air; she sees the several bugbears hanging from the legs of saurians to drag them down; she sees Truscans fire their tendrils around the legs of a saurian and pull it to the ground (and then El Cid slices the beasts head off with Tizona).

  “Viva El Cid!” the giant crows, raising his flaming sword into the air.

  While the battle felt nearly lost only moments ago, the tide has turned. And quickly. The saurians are now outnumbered by the creatures from the Beyond.

  Those few saurians that are not brought down and killed are set flying off into the hinterlands, fleeing for their lives. Meanwhile, the Lady of the Lake sprays water across the rooftops, dousing the fires that earlier plagued the city.

  Wendolyn connects with Richard across the smoking battleground. He stands there amid the dwindling fight, ash falling around him like gossamer tumbleweed, and he looks tired to his very bone. And while the pain of his father’s death still flickers on his face, there is also triumph in his weary smile.

  For Wendolyn, she feels at ease. Perhaps for the first time in her life. There is a peace that comes with finally knowing oneself, with finally knowing her purpose.

  As her eyes travel over the landscape, they come upon the still body of Waldron. He once held the fate of Wendolyn in his skeletal hands, but no longer. The powerful evil within him, fueled by his ancient vengeance, is now dust. And as he lies there, dead, his darklings peck at his scarred flesh like vultures. The keepers of his memories are eating his body, erasing the Rune’s very existence. It is a grimly poetic scene caught in the strange light of the eclipse.

  To bring the battle to its coda, Wendolyn points the Sorcerer’s Staff at the moon that blocks the sun. She invites the moon to continue on its journey across the sky, and it obeys. And as the moon clears, it reveals the sun, which showers its healing light down upon the Realm.

  {Richard}

  The warm and gentle winds of late May set the leaves trembling above Richard as he sits beneath the magnolia tree in the Sacred Garden. In this season, the leaves are a shock of bright reddish-purple, now made even brighter by the afternoon sun that streaks through the branches.

  The last time Richard sat beneath this tree, he had berated Master Cheng for telling his father he had snuck off to Mount Saurian to climb it, to complete the test of Kings. Richard had foolishly wished for a quest to prove his worth, and Master Cheng had responded, “One cannot create the monster only so that they may slay it.”

  And now, Richard has completed his quest to rescue the Descendant, he has slayed the monster, and he has been heralded a hero. But he would trade all of it for one more hour spent in the warm shadow of his father.

  Here, in the Sacred Garden, beneath this solemn tree, Richard’s heart is seeded with sorrow, and his soul is pinioned by the firm grip of loss. In the days and hours that have followed his father’s death, Richard has been absorbed by a profound sense of mourning. He has spent time alone in this garden so that he might avoid the company of others.

  And, if he is honest, he is avoiding something else as well: seeing the lifeless body of his father, which currently lies in repose in the Throne Room, where it will remain until a fortnight after his passing, as custom demands. At such time, his father’s body will be ceremoniously ushered to the rocky shores, and the tide will wash his funeral pyre out into the ocean.

  Richard’s mother has spent mornings, afternoons and evenings in the Throne Room, sitting at the side of the King. But Richard cannot bring himself to stand before a body that no longer holds the voice of his father. His father’s voice, measured and confident, was Richard’s rope to safety. But now, that rope has been pulled up, leaving Richard stranded with only his sadness.

  Across the garden, Master Cheng quietly works with stone and mortar. He is building a monument to King Henry: a tall cairn that will hold a torch atop it, a torch that will be kept lit always in remembrance of the King. It will be Master Cheng’s final, but lasting, contribution to the Sacred Garden, and to the kingdom.

 
Master Cheng has informed Richard that, with the passing of the King, his own time serving the Realm has also come to an end. The ancient master wishes to return to the Hua Quan village of his birth, where he will spend his gloaming years in the service of Mulan and the Order.

  Richard understands Master Cheng’s decision, although it leaves Richard without a King’s hand, without a constant source of wisdom and counsel at his side as Richard takes on the mantle of the King.

  “May I join you beneath this tree?” a gentle voice asks, stirring Richard from the melancholy of his mind.

  It is Queen Soraya.

  Richard nods, and his mother sits down beside him. She is dressed in an unornamented black frock, which matches the sable strands in her hair. Richard cannot remember a time when she has looked so tired, so unmade. Her cheeks are puffy, and the spaces beneath her eyes are red.

  “So this is where you have secreted to? It is a nice spot,” she judges.

  “I am not hiding, if that is what you think,” Richard lies defensively.

  But the Queen sees through his words, and she gives him a sympathetic smile. Then, she looks up at the magnolia leaves, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun to see the blushing crown of the tree.

  As she stares at the blooms, she muses: “The death of your father tests the limits of wisdom. It does not seem fair. For over a week now, my mind has not wanted to meet the day, and I have wished to climb into a hole and pull it in after me. And yet, the day has come all the same. A thousand mornings will come and go, but this pain still will not pass.”

  His mother turns her gaze on Richard, emotion finding her throat.

  “When you fall in love with someone, as I fell in love with your father, over time you begin to believe that they will live forever. Deep in your heart, you know it is not possible, that nobody lives forever. But then that part of you that shields your heart, whether with half-truths or embellishments, convinces you that this one person, the man you love completely, may be the exception. That your love is rare and true, and that it makes eternity possible.”