As he looked about the shuffling mob, it was the figure of Sir Arian that first caught his attention. The man had just dismounted from the back of a horse, and most assuredly been in the saddle for some time, judging from his appearance. Yet, to Delwin it mattered not. It was a pleasant sight to see a friendly face from bygone years.
Taking Arian’s arm, and returning his smile, Delwin chuckled. “It is wonderful to see you as well, Sir Arian. And if your appearance displeases anyone here, I have little doubt their tongue will hold; there are far more important matters to weigh upon the mind.”
Delwin moved alongside Arian, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt, as the crowd continued to shuffle inside. It was not but a stride or two further when Delwin heard a call from over his shoulder.
Turning about, Delwin saw a slight arm raised above the heads behind him. The voice that had called his name was feminine and vibrant, and one he would never forget.
“Ah yes,” Delwin said, gesturing for Arian to join in him in greeting. “I dared to hope that the venerable Kettle Knight would be among this fine group.”
As the young knight approached, Delwin smiled to her, his eyes crinkling with genuine joy. When she drew near enough, his hand clapped warmly upon her shoulder.
“It’s wonderful to see you hearty and hale, Dame Ysobel. I pray you remember Sir Arian Hydd?”
Delwin opened his stance wider so the two could exchange greetings.
“…And Sir Gruffydd! My goodness, this is more good fortune than could be hoped for. Perhaps even more so given the portended news that has called us together.”
Delwin greeted the knight with a handshake, his expression somewhat more serious than it had been a moment before. “If the rumors surrounding our arrival are only half as true as the reality, than I should be happy for it, to be honest. I daresay that the Sir Ronan would agree…?”
With another pleasant smile, Delwin met the gaze of Ronan as the knight joined them, and welcomed him to the small gathering. There was a welling of pride, and something akin to ease that came with this unexpected reunion that Delwin found solace in.
Yet, even this slight measure of comfort could not delay the coming meeting. The press of the knights behind them gave the assembled friends only the barest moment of reprieve before they were inexorably forced to move along, and take their places within the Great Keep.
The buzz of conversation filled the stone hall. Hundreds of knights pressed themselves inside, shuffling their booted feet until the large gates could at last be closed by waiting guards. At the front of the large room, standing atop a raised portion of the floor, was the knight-regent himself.
Regaled in a tunic of sky blue, gold, and trimmed with fine lace, Lancelot appeared every bit the second to the great king. His friendship with Arthur was a legendary one, and even now, Delwin could see the weight that seemed to hang around the man’s neck like an anchor.
At this sight, the brief glimmer of reassurance Delwin had gleaned from the chance meeting with his friends wholly vanished.
“Lord, be kind to us in this hour.” Delwin whispered, as much to himself, as anyone else.
Lancelot looked down from his place at the stonework dais, and regarded the gathered knights with an expression of heavy pride. His emerald eyes moved from person to person, reading their faces and collective thoughts. There was much to see in the visages of his peers. A sea of concern, uneasiness, haunting memory, and the anxiety of fate to be soon revealed.
For his part, the Knight-Regent’s heart thundered in his chest. His mouth was dry, and the air slipping into his nostrils seemed insufficient to sate his breath. The thrill of this nervous tension was more intense than any precursor to battle he had yet felt. It made Lancelot marvel further at the grace and poise of Arthur. How many times had the king faced such a crowd? Had garnered their favor and loyalty in the face of approaching doom?
“My brothers and sisters,” Lancelot began. His voice was loud, and the words coming from between his lips seemed to surprise even him.
He cleared his throat, and started anew. This time his voice was more poised and confident.
“My brothers and sisters, thank you for answering this call. It is with a heavy heart that I summon you hear today, and I shall not delay in the delivery of my news any further…”
Lancelot paused, his voice catching in his throat. He looked down upon his booted feet, and only the rush of his own heart could he hear within in ears. When at last he cast his eyes upward, they were as cold and hard as any granite. The bottom of his lip trembled.
“…Our king has been slain.”
Delwin knew he cried out. He perceived that from within his chest he exhaled a low wail of despair, yet he did not hear it. The ringing in his ears grew to a piercing, all consuming roar that forced away the notice of all sound save the echo of Lancelot’s words.
”Our king has been slain.”
”Our king has been slain.”
”Our king has been slain.”
The Great Hall was filled with all manner of exultations of disbelief and desolation. Some knights fell to their knees, clasping their crying eyes in their hands. Others merely stood, dumbfounded and frozen. A growing crescendo of voices called out for answers, demanding with balled fists for the names of their king’s murderer, for justice, and for vengeance.
Delwin yet stood, his head gradually clearing with the voices of his brethren. He looked about, his eyes unable to focus sharply upon the faces around him, as if they were covered with fine cloth. Already, a growing chant of, “Raise the army! Raise the army!” was catching wing.
Justice? Delwin thought. Who will be at the tip of our spiteful and righteous swords?
Looking up, his own thoughts clearing away the lingering haze of disbelief and shocked misery, Delwin noticed Lancelot holding up his hands for quiet. The Knight-Regent looked as if tears were welling in his eyes.
“Silence, damn it!” Delwin yelled, his own voice powered with emotion. “Let the Knight-Regent speak!”
The din having been pierced by Sir Delwin’s call, an uneasy quiet settled upon the crowd.
“I hear your anguish, and I feel it also.” Lancelot said once silence took hold within the Great Hall.
“Our king was taken from us too early. How can such injustice befall a man so noble and worthy of Grace?”
Lancelot balled his fists, and lifted them to the heavens, punctuating his question. His body quaked, the fabric of his tunic trembling like a leaf against the wind.
The hard green of his eyes shone through slits of rage and purpose now, his gaze piercing into the knights before him. In that instance, a shift in his manner could be seem. Lancelot could feel it also, as if he were shedding an unwanted skin, and finding freedom in the new.
“But,” he spat, his words a hissing whisper. “Who are we to say Arthur was stolen from us without cause?”
The use of Arthur’s name, instead of his royal title could not be lost upon the knights.
“Who are we to challenge in the wisdom and will of God? For it is he who is the master of heaven and earth. How dare we question his plan…”
Lancelot’s arm withdrew behind him, clasping at the small of his back. He paced along the dais, his gaze not faltering from the watching faces.
“We are all instruments of the Almighty, and when we are presented with the opportunity to fulfill our destinies, we must seize that chance. Only heretics defy such fate…”
His words poured forth like fire now, the confidence and fervor building within his chest. Lancelot’s eyes grew somehow wild, like a verdant asp was writhing at the backs of each iris.
“…And we must all do our duty to accept God’s purpose. No matter the cost.”
At that, there was a heavy thud from without. Large timber boards fell into place across the Great Hall’s gates. In the rafters high above, movement could be seen. Men in dark cloaks heaved at barrels of pitch that had been hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, until the black, vile contents spilled forth.
Like a waterfall of obsidian, the pitch rained down onto the thick crowd of knights in the Great Keep. The stinking, sticky substance fell in haphazard sheets that soaked some, and merely splattered others. The stone floor of the keep became coated with the stuff in moments.
From the wall nearest him, Lancelot plucked a lit torch. Holding it high for a moment, he gazed into the dancing flame. To those who looked upon him then, his face would seem a mask of holy resolution, righteous in intent and conviction. There was no doubt, no remorse, and no hesitation.
Looking down one final time, Lancelot threw the torch into the crush of knights. In an instant the flame caught, roaring like a living beast, and consuming several unfortunate souls in a flash of hell. The fire spread quickly, creating a blaze that would soon come to engulf the whole of the keep.
The traitor knight, safe upon his raised platform of stone, disappeared behind the growing, impenetrable wall of flame.
Horror came in an instant.
It descended upon Delwin and his comrades as swift as the beat of a bat’s wing. And just as dark.
With pitch stinging his eyes, Delwin recoiled from the thrown torch. The first rows of knights were engulfed instantly, their bodies becoming moving statues of orange, yellow, and red tongues of flame. Screams and cries of pain melding with the roar of the growing fire, adding chaos to the rising black smoke. Lancelot had already disappeared behind this fire, and escape was impossible beyond the stone dais.
Many of those near the gates of the Great Keep turned and rushed in panic, slamming themselves against the iron-banded timbers. Several knights withdrew their swords and began hacking away at the wood—a futile gesture as the flames advanced through the crowd.
Fear clutched at Delwin’s heart. It rippled across his flesh as the primal fear of the fire came to him with every new breath of choking smoke. From his position near the center-right of the crowd, he was not yet being threatened by the flames, but it would not be long now.
Delwin swung his head to a fro, searching desperately for some means of escape. Around him, panic stricken knights flailed and pushed, vying for space that would not come.
The windows of the Great Keep were small, and placed high into the walls. There was no way to reach them without ladders, and even still, the fall on the other side would prove just as deadly. At this realization, Delwin found himself descending closer and closer to hysteria.
Stumbling, he caught himself on the arms of another knight. His eyes cast upward, and through the smoke, he could barely make out the heavy timbers of the Great Keeps rafters. The very rafters where the agents of the Traitor Knight had lain in wait. Strangely, amidst all the chaos and death, as if viewing the scene for the first time, a realization came to Delwin.
The men that pushed over the barrels…they’re gone? How…?
Hope flooded his consciousness, desperate and primal. Gaining his feet, Delwin began to shove his way towards where the dais met the exterior walls. The bulk of flame was in the center, but its head still radiated dangerously across the room; the pitch soaking Delwin’s tunic could ignite at any moment.
Fighting his way forward, Delwin managed to reach one of the massive stone columns that rose upward to support the rafter beams. The smoke was thick and noxious, making every breath harder and harder to take. His vision swam, and Delwin could feel his limbs weakening from exertion and lack of clean air. Only purpose and hope spurned him onward.
Reaching the far side of the protruding stone, Delwin’s heart leapt at what he found. A thin ladder, affixed to the stone with iron bolts, rose upward to the rafters. He thought he had remembered these being here the last time he visited the Great Keep, and his memory had served him well. They had been built for access to inspect the giant keep’s roofing structure, and as such, there had to be passages that led all the way along the upper portion of the walls. There had to be a way to escape beyond the far wall behind the dais.
Turning about, Delwin began to climb the ladder. Looking out, he could see only smoke, and the writhing outlines of knights as they burned, died, and fought for survival.
“Over here!” He cried in choking desperation. “Climb to the ceiling! We must get to the rafters!”
Delwin continued to climb up, pausing to periodically scream into the jet-black mass of smoke. The heat was almost unbearable, and it was surely a miracle that the pitch that covered him had not burst into flame.
“Come on, brothers and sisters, please…please, climb…”
Delwin’s last cry was as much a plea to God as it was for any of his fellow knights. They could not all die here. This could not be the end of Arthur’s legacy, and the final measure of devotion for his loyal subjects.
All that remained for Delwin, as the flames and smoke all but overtook him, was to climb and to hope.
Taking Arian’s arm, and returning his smile, Delwin chuckled. “It is wonderful to see you as well, Sir Arian. And if your appearance displeases anyone here, I have little doubt their tongue will hold; there are far more important matters to weigh upon the mind.”
Delwin moved alongside Arian, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt, as the crowd continued to shuffle inside. It was not but a stride or two further when Delwin heard a call from over his shoulder.
Turning about, Delwin saw a slight arm raised above the heads behind him. The voice that had called his name was feminine and vibrant, and one he would never forget.
“Ah yes,” Delwin said, gesturing for Arian to join in him in greeting. “I dared to hope that the venerable Kettle Knight would be among this fine group.”
As the young knight approached, Delwin smiled to her, his eyes crinkling with genuine joy. When she drew near enough, his hand clapped warmly upon her shoulder.
“It’s wonderful to see you hearty and hale, Dame Ysobel. I pray you remember Sir Arian Hydd?”
Delwin opened his stance wider so the two could exchange greetings.
“…And Sir Gruffydd! My goodness, this is more good fortune than could be hoped for. Perhaps even more so given the portended news that has called us together.”
Delwin greeted the knight with a handshake, his expression somewhat more serious than it had been a moment before. “If the rumors surrounding our arrival are only half as true as the reality, than I should be happy for it, to be honest. I daresay that the Sir Ronan would agree…?”
With another pleasant smile, Delwin met the gaze of Ronan as the knight joined them, and welcomed him to the small gathering. There was a welling of pride, and something akin to ease that came with this unexpected reunion that Delwin found solace in.
Yet, even this slight measure of comfort could not delay the coming meeting. The press of the knights behind them gave the assembled friends only the barest moment of reprieve before they were inexorably forced to move along, and take their places within the Great Keep.
The buzz of conversation filled the stone hall. Hundreds of knights pressed themselves inside, shuffling their booted feet until the large gates could at last be closed by waiting guards. At the front of the large room, standing atop a raised portion of the floor, was the knight-regent himself.
Regaled in a tunic of sky blue, gold, and trimmed with fine lace, Lancelot appeared every bit the second to the great king. His friendship with Arthur was a legendary one, and even now, Delwin could see the weight that seemed to hang around the man’s neck like an anchor.
At this sight, the brief glimmer of reassurance Delwin had gleaned from the chance meeting with his friends wholly vanished.
“Lord, be kind to us in this hour.” Delwin whispered, as much to himself, as anyone else.
Lancelot looked down from his place at the stonework dais, and regarded the gathered knights with an expression of heavy pride. His emerald eyes moved from person to person, reading their faces and collective thoughts. There was much to see in the visages of his peers. A sea of concern, uneasiness, haunting memory, and the anxiety of fate to be soon revealed.
For his part, the Knight-Regent’s heart thundered in his chest. His mouth was dry, and the air slipping into his nostrils seemed insufficient to sate his breath. The thrill of this nervous tension was more intense than any precursor to battle he had yet felt. It made Lancelot marvel further at the grace and poise of Arthur. How many times had the king faced such a crowd? Had garnered their favor and loyalty in the face of approaching doom?
“My brothers and sisters,” Lancelot began. His voice was loud, and the words coming from between his lips seemed to surprise even him.
He cleared his throat, and started anew. This time his voice was more poised and confident.
“My brothers and sisters, thank you for answering this call. It is with a heavy heart that I summon you hear today, and I shall not delay in the delivery of my news any further…”
Lancelot paused, his voice catching in his throat. He looked down upon his booted feet, and only the rush of his own heart could he hear within in ears. When at last he cast his eyes upward, they were as cold and hard as any granite. The bottom of his lip trembled.
“…Our king has been slain.”
Delwin knew he cried out. He perceived that from within his chest he exhaled a low wail of despair, yet he did not hear it. The ringing in his ears grew to a piercing, all consuming roar that forced away the notice of all sound save the echo of Lancelot’s words.
”Our king has been slain.”
”Our king has been slain.”
”Our king has been slain.”
The Great Hall was filled with all manner of exultations of disbelief and desolation. Some knights fell to their knees, clasping their crying eyes in their hands. Others merely stood, dumbfounded and frozen. A growing crescendo of voices called out for answers, demanding with balled fists for the names of their king’s murderer, for justice, and for vengeance.
Delwin yet stood, his head gradually clearing with the voices of his brethren. He looked about, his eyes unable to focus sharply upon the faces around him, as if they were covered with fine cloth. Already, a growing chant of, “Raise the army! Raise the army!” was catching wing.
Justice? Delwin thought. Who will be at the tip of our spiteful and righteous swords?
Looking up, his own thoughts clearing away the lingering haze of disbelief and shocked misery, Delwin noticed Lancelot holding up his hands for quiet. The Knight-Regent looked as if tears were welling in his eyes.
“Silence, damn it!” Delwin yelled, his own voice powered with emotion. “Let the Knight-Regent speak!”
The din having been pierced by Sir Delwin’s call, an uneasy quiet settled upon the crowd.
“I hear your anguish, and I feel it also.” Lancelot said once silence took hold within the Great Hall.
“Our king was taken from us too early. How can such injustice befall a man so noble and worthy of Grace?”
Lancelot balled his fists, and lifted them to the heavens, punctuating his question. His body quaked, the fabric of his tunic trembling like a leaf against the wind.
The hard green of his eyes shone through slits of rage and purpose now, his gaze piercing into the knights before him. In that instance, a shift in his manner could be seem. Lancelot could feel it also, as if he were shedding an unwanted skin, and finding freedom in the new.
“But,” he spat, his words a hissing whisper. “Who are we to say Arthur was stolen from us without cause?”
The use of Arthur’s name, instead of his royal title could not be lost upon the knights.
“Who are we to challenge in the wisdom and will of God? For it is he who is the master of heaven and earth. How dare we question his plan…”
Lancelot’s arm withdrew behind him, clasping at the small of his back. He paced along the dais, his gaze not faltering from the watching faces.
“We are all instruments of the Almighty, and when we are presented with the opportunity to fulfill our destinies, we must seize that chance. Only heretics defy such fate…”
His words poured forth like fire now, the confidence and fervor building within his chest. Lancelot’s eyes grew somehow wild, like a verdant asp was writhing at the backs of each iris.
“…And we must all do our duty to accept God’s purpose. No matter the cost.”
At that, there was a heavy thud from without. Large timber boards fell into place across the Great Hall’s gates. In the rafters high above, movement could be seen. Men in dark cloaks heaved at barrels of pitch that had been hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, until the black, vile contents spilled forth.
Like a waterfall of obsidian, the pitch rained down onto the thick crowd of knights in the Great Keep. The stinking, sticky substance fell in haphazard sheets that soaked some, and merely splattered others. The stone floor of the keep became coated with the stuff in moments.
From the wall nearest him, Lancelot plucked a lit torch. Holding it high for a moment, he gazed into the dancing flame. To those who looked upon him then, his face would seem a mask of holy resolution, righteous in intent and conviction. There was no doubt, no remorse, and no hesitation.
Looking down one final time, Lancelot threw the torch into the crush of knights. In an instant the flame caught, roaring like a living beast, and consuming several unfortunate souls in a flash of hell. The fire spread quickly, creating a blaze that would soon come to engulf the whole of the keep.
The traitor knight, safe upon his raised platform of stone, disappeared behind the growing, impenetrable wall of flame.
Horror came in an instant.
It descended upon Delwin and his comrades as swift as the beat of a bat’s wing. And just as dark.
With pitch stinging his eyes, Delwin recoiled from the thrown torch. The first rows of knights were engulfed instantly, their bodies becoming moving statues of orange, yellow, and red tongues of flame. Screams and cries of pain melding with the roar of the growing fire, adding chaos to the rising black smoke. Lancelot had already disappeared behind this fire, and escape was impossible beyond the stone dais.
Many of those near the gates of the Great Keep turned and rushed in panic, slamming themselves against the iron-banded timbers. Several knights withdrew their swords and began hacking away at the wood—a futile gesture as the flames advanced through the crowd.
Fear clutched at Delwin’s heart. It rippled across his flesh as the primal fear of the fire came to him with every new breath of choking smoke. From his position near the center-right of the crowd, he was not yet being threatened by the flames, but it would not be long now.
Delwin swung his head to a fro, searching desperately for some means of escape. Around him, panic stricken knights flailed and pushed, vying for space that would not come.
The windows of the Great Keep were small, and placed high into the walls. There was no way to reach them without ladders, and even still, the fall on the other side would prove just as deadly. At this realization, Delwin found himself descending closer and closer to hysteria.
Stumbling, he caught himself on the arms of another knight. His eyes cast upward, and through the smoke, he could barely make out the heavy timbers of the Great Keeps rafters. The very rafters where the agents of the Traitor Knight had lain in wait. Strangely, amidst all the chaos and death, as if viewing the scene for the first time, a realization came to Delwin.
The men that pushed over the barrels…they’re gone? How…?
Hope flooded his consciousness, desperate and primal. Gaining his feet, Delwin began to shove his way towards where the dais met the exterior walls. The bulk of flame was in the center, but its head still radiated dangerously across the room; the pitch soaking Delwin’s tunic could ignite at any moment.
Fighting his way forward, Delwin managed to reach one of the massive stone columns that rose upward to support the rafter beams. The smoke was thick and noxious, making every breath harder and harder to take. His vision swam, and Delwin could feel his limbs weakening from exertion and lack of clean air. Only purpose and hope spurned him onward.
Reaching the far side of the protruding stone, Delwin’s heart leapt at what he found. A thin ladder, affixed to the stone with iron bolts, rose upward to the rafters. He thought he had remembered these being here the last time he visited the Great Keep, and his memory had served him well. They had been built for access to inspect the giant keep’s roofing structure, and as such, there had to be passages that led all the way along the upper portion of the walls. There had to be a way to escape beyond the far wall behind the dais.
Turning about, Delwin began to climb the ladder. Looking out, he could see only smoke, and the writhing outlines of knights as they burned, died, and fought for survival.
“Over here!” He cried in choking desperation. “Climb to the ceiling! We must get to the rafters!”
Delwin continued to climb up, pausing to periodically scream into the jet-black mass of smoke. The heat was almost unbearable, and it was surely a miracle that the pitch that covered him had not burst into flame.
“Come on, brothers and sisters, please…please, climb…”
Delwin’s last cry was as much a plea to God as it was for any of his fellow knights. They could not all die here. This could not be the end of Arthur’s legacy, and the final measure of devotion for his loyal subjects.
All that remained for Delwin, as the flames and smoke all but overtook him, was to climb and to hope.
