Knights of Avalon

Chapter 2

The sound of Weslon and the soldiers’ voices grew fainter behind Gawain as he ran. After running as far as his weakened state allowed him, then pushing himself to run some more, the castle walls finally came into view. Only then did Gawain stop to lean against a tree and catch his breath.

The Britannic Castle was a fortress, and its entire vicinity was surrounded by a dense, artificial forest, except for its main gates. Even if you were lucky enough to find your way through the woods, it meant nothing unless you could get over the castle walls.

Gawain gripped the dagger Weslon had given him tightly in his hand. Weslon had said he would be following close behind, but Gawain knew there was no guarantee they would ever see each other again. He also knew that the gates leading out of the castle would be crawling with soldiers by now.

“Security will be weakest at…” Gawain trailed off.

After desperately wracking his brain, he changed direction and headed toward the upper part of the forest where the rampart walls farthest from the main castle lay. He knew there was a gate through which only the lowest level of laborers and diseased corpses passed through.

Gawain moved briskly through the terrain, then froze as the bright rays of moonlight pouring down were suddenly obscured by clouds, darkening his surroundings in an instant. He exhaled raggedly, then made a run for it into the woods. Gawain heard the pounding of footsteps behind him.

There's four or five of them. That's more of them than I thought.

When did they pick up his tracks? Gawain ran until he thought his heart would burst, then made an abrupt turn and looped back toward a large tree he had just passed. He stood behind the tree, clutched his dagger, then drove it into the chest of one of the masked men who was pursuing him.

Gawain wrenched his dagger out of the man’s chest, and the assassin’s body fell limply to the ground. Then Gawain was surrounded by the sound of multiple blades being unsheathed at once. He stared down at the wide, unseeing eyes of the man he had just killed.

He was clothed in a black outfit that revealed nothing but his eyes. Not even his weapon betrayed any hint of who he was or where he had come from.

“Who the hell are you bastards?”

The masked men wordlessly dropped down to the ground from the tree tops. Gawain scoffed. It wasn’t like he’d expected to receive an answer anyway. He eyed them grimly as he counted. There were more of them than he expected.

Gawain absentmindedly gnawed the corner of his lip as he studied his opponents. These were no ordinary soldiers. He could tell that much right away.

Whoever it was they answered to, the fact they could infiltrate the castle grounds with such ease indicated they were extremely competent and highly lethal. They were ruthless and hardly even glanced at the body of their fallen comrade as they advanced.

One of the assassins, presumably the leader, gave a signal, and the rest charged at Gawain. As Gawain hastily dodged the assailing dagger of one of the assassins, another one moved in on him from behind.

“Damn it!” Gawain cursed as he dove to the ground and rolled out of the assassin’s grasp.

The swarm of attackers continued to throw themselves at him, refusing to let up. Something shifted in the corner of Gawain’s eye, and he launched the dagger Weslon had given him, aiming it perfectly at the neck of an assassin who had been lurking in the shadows. Gawain pushed against the ground and got up unsteadily, struggling to catch his breath.

Before, Gawain would’ve made short work of a squad of assassins such as this. But then again, that was before.

Gawain’s lengthy imprisonment had left him in a greatly weakened state, and any sort of commotion that might draw the attention of the castle guards would only speed up his demise.

Gawain squeezed his eyes shut as the assassins closed in on him.

So this is how it ends…

A montage of everything that had happened to Gawain leading up to this moment flashed in his mind’s eye. There was a brief moment, and then—

“Hurk…!”

Gawain heard a faint gasp of pain, and he opened his eyes just in time to see Weslon’s blade send an assassin’s head rolling across the ground. Spurts of hot blood gushed from the man’s disembodied neck, and Weslon reached for Gawain’s shoulder to help steady his staggering feet.

“Are you alright?” Weslon asked.

“You! How did you get here?” Gawain had no recollection of telling Weslon that he was headed this way.

Weslon gestured at the run-down castle walls with his chin before answering. “I had a feeling you might come this way, Sir Gawain.”

Most knights were highborn individuals of a privileged class with magical abilities. No matter how dire the situation, the thought of traveling down the so-called “corpse road” would’ve never crossed their minds. But Gawain was different from most knights.

Gawain wasn’t from a noble family. In fact, he was a commoner who had fought every step of the way to earn his place as a Knight of the Round Table, and thus, he had no reason to think that taking a road for corpses was beneath him.

Weslon retrieved his dagger from the neck of one of the corpses while Gawain surveyed the bloody scene.

Unlike the castle soldiers, whose main prerogative was to arrest him, the masked assassins had rushed to kill Gawain without a second thought. There was no doubt they had been acting on somebody’s orders.

“Do you know who they are?” Gawain asked.

“No.” Weslon shook his head, then took Gawain’s hand and led him back into the forest. “Even the corpse gates will be heavy with security. We should return to the waterways.”

Gawain nodded in agreement. Weslon’s fingers around his clammy hands felt hot to the touch.

At that moment, Gawain’s legs buckled, and he nearly kneeled as he stumbled forward. Weslon quickly moved to support him.

“Sir Gawain…!”

He wanted to speak and say that he was okay, but he couldn’t form the words. It was as if all the adrenaline in his body had suddenly disappeared and was replaced by tremendous surges of pain radiating from his shoulder.

Gawain clutched at his shoulder. Weslon gently pried his hand off, revealing a bleeding gash and a wet spot that was spreading. It was a wound that Gawain had sustained from one of the assassins, and the blade that delivered it had been poisoned from the looks of it.

“It’s okay… I’m going to be okay.”

It seemed unfair that this was how it would end after so much struggling. Gawain clung to Weslon as he tried to stand upright. He raised his head and saw a flash, then took a few steps toward the light.

The light seemed to grow bigger and bigger until something flew at Gawain. A spell had been launched from the forest depths, hitting him squarely in the chest and sending him flying until he crashed into a tree.

“Gah…!”

Gawain coughed, and a spray of blood erupted into the night. It felt like his whole body was being pulverized. Weslon stood firmly between Gawain and their unknown assailant with his hand on his sword, ready to draw.

“How the hell did you find us here?!”

Weslon raised his voice as the figure approached. His voice was hoarse, and his face was twisted with fury. There was a strange fierceness in his eyes that seemed like he might dissolve into tears at a moment’s notice.

Gawain had known Weslon for a long time, but this was the first time he had seen him in this state.

Why is he making that face? Why?

Gawain strained to see who it was standing before Weslon, but his vision was blurred and fading. He struggled to identify the mysterious figure several times, and it seemed to elude him no matter how hard he tried. His muscles seized up, then relaxed, and his eyelids slowly fluttered shut.

I… I don't want to die like this.

But his body seemed to have a mind of its own. Even his thoughts seemed to stiffen and freeze in place, and Gawain’s body fell limply to the wayside.

***

“Argh…!”

Gawain’s eyes flew open as a giant breath heaved him back to consciousness. His heart pounded madly against his ribs, and he clutched at his chest in pain. Hyperventilating, he cradled his spinning head and hunched over, then looked down at his hands.

It took a few moments before his vision sharpened into focus, and he tried to regulate his breathing as he concentrated on the calluses on his trembling hands. He covered his mouth and tried to exhale for as long as he could muster. When the spinning stopped, he willed himself to look at his surroundings.

There was a bed that looked familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen it. A faint medicinal scent filled his nostrils.

Somehow, Gawain was certain he knew what pattern the wallpaper beyond his curtained area would be and the exact way the furniture in the room would be arranged. It all gave him a startling sense of déjà vu.

What’s going on?

He touched his hand to his throbbing shoulder. Moments ago, he was attacked by unknown assailants before succumbing to a poisoned wound. As he gingerly rubbed at the pain, he realized his shoulder was wrapped in layers of thick bandages.

Did someone find him and treat his wound?

There was a brown overgarment draped carelessly over the shelf next to Gawain’s bed. He studied it intently before it hit him. It was a garment that Gawain recognized.

No way…

Gawain snatched up the jacket and examined it closely. There was a very familiar gold insignia emblazoned on the breast pocket. It was the image of a crossed sword and shield symbolizing the Britannian Imperial Military Academy.

There was more. Underneath the insignia was Gawain’s own name embroidered in tiny script. This was definitely Gawain’s own jacket.

“But how…?” he wondered aloud.

He heard someone approaching from beyond the curtain. Gawain put the jacket down and turned toward the noise. Whoever it was, they were definitely headed toward Gawain.

The curtains were drawn back, revealing the familiar looking face of another boy. The boy stared at Gawain for a moment with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Gawain! I didn't realize you were up. Are you all right?”

Gawain stared back at the boy. Brown locks of hair tumbled over his ears and around his pale face, framing two inquisitive amber-colored eyes and a small, almost dainty red mouth. This boy wasn’t just familiar to Gawain. He would recognize him anywhere.

It was Aegis Jupiter.

On the Night of Walpurgis when the massacre of the Knights of the Round Table took place, there were only two survivors. Gawain, who was blamed as the culprit, and Aegis Jupiter, another fellow Knight of the Round Table.

“You’ve been out for hours! You know how worried I was? How’s the shoulder?”

Aegis peppered Gawain with questions that he didn’t know how to answer. He raised a finger at Aegis, and the boy fell silent. Gawain needed a moment to think.

“Does your head hurt?”

“No—I mean, it’s… Just give me a second. I only just woke up, so I… I just need a minute.” Gawain was so confused, even his own voice sounded alien to him.

Aegis nodded patiently as Gawain struggled to think.

His heart was still beating faster than a rabbit’s foot. Gawain inhaled deeply and lowered his shaky hands to his sides. After a couple of deep breaths, his narrow field of vision began to open up.

Now feeling fairly calm, Gawain turned to address the fretful Aegis at his side.

Aegis was just as Gawain remembered, but he was a far cry from the Aegis that he knew. The Aegis that Gawain knew was a far more robust and mature man, not this soft, pale-faced boy who stood before him.

Was this really Aegis? Could it really be him?

Gawain, full of trepidation, called out, “Aegis?”