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The inn keeper and several other patrons were watching, as if waiting for the two combatants to draw swords.

Indulf was still laying on the floor, sizing him up, taking in Tristan’s superior height and weight.

Apparently deciding it would be in his best interest to feign humor, Indulf rose to his feet and brushed himself off.

He set his chair to right and reached for his mug of ale.

Raising his goblet, he guffawed, “Aw hell, Tristan, I was just havin’ a bit o’ fun. No harm done, eh?” The swine gulped his frothy brew, wincing as the mug thumped against his swollen lip.

Tristan allowed Vaughan to drag him back to the table and buy him another tankard of ale. With the brawl narrowly averted, the raucous revelry of his companions resumed in full force. Indulf glowered at him across the room.

Just as Tristan and Vaughan were preparing to leave the large hall to retire to their room, one of the well-dressed patrons and his cadre of armed personal guards stood up from a table and headed for the exit.

The obviously wealthy lord, surprisingly short in stature, had a dark and withered face, misshapen and contorted. The baron, followed by his armed guards, stopped at Indulf’s table to speak with the blond knight.

The lord’s personal guards bore gleaming swords at their hips, a surcoat with the image of a wild boar over their chain mail armor.

The diminutive baron and Indulf conferred, glancing repeatedly in his direction.

Tristan realized that he was obviously the topic of their conversation; he could feel their watchful, predatory eyes assessing him.

Plotting. Conspiring. His warrior instincts told him to beware.

A barmaid was wiping off a nearby table, and Tristan motioned for her to approach. He asked the woman if she recognized the baron who was speaking to Indulf. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and turned abruptly back to Tristan, her eyes widened in fear.

“The dwarf? Aye, m’lord. That’s Frocin, a shipping merchant.

He owns a fortress just east of here, in the Forest of Morois.

He’s very wealthy, ‘cause he’s the one they hire when there’s money owed, or property to be seized, or vengeance to be had.

Some say he’s an assassin; others, that he delves in the dark arts.

Best to stay clear of him, m’lord. Frocin’s dangerous and deadly, that he is. ”

The mercenary, having finished his intense discussion with Indulf, headed towards the exit with his entourage of heavily armed knights.

The dwarf’s malevolent stare made the hairs on the back of Tristan’s neck rise.

A chill rippled through him as Frocin grinned wickedly, sauntering past Tristan’s table.

He watched the dwarf slither from the inn, a dozen guards in his wake. He wondered what the hell Indulf had said to put that bloody smirk on Frocin’s gnarled face. Something sinister. About him. He finished his ale and went upstairs with Vaughan to their room.

“Thanks for saving me, brother. I wanted to kill the bastard.” Tristan unbuckled his sword and placed it beside his bed. He glanced over at Vaughan, sitting on his own bed, removing his boots.

“I know, Tristan. I know.” Vaughan’s eyes reflected empathy. And stern reprimand.

Tristan’s temper often got the best of him. And tonight, he’d nearly lost everything.

He would have killed Indulf. To stop him from hurting her.

Because he had not been able to stop the Vikings from ravaging his beautiful sister.

The guilt and rage consumed him. Thank the Goddess Vaughan had saved his ass tonight. Because he would have killed Indulf.

And been hanged for murder.

It was a long time before sleep finally found him.

****

The next morning, the ten knights broke their fast and loaded up the warhorses to complete the last leg of the journey to Camelot.

As they headed northeast, the incline of the forested terrain became increasingly steeper as they crossed the foothills through the dense woodlands of southern Britain.

Finally, as the sun approached its zenith, the travelers glimpsed the magnificent white stone castle and the treacherous bridge across a precipice which provided the only access.

Built atop a mountain, Camelot was an impenetrable fortress, surrounded at its base by an immense stone outer curtain wall with a drawbridge protected by a metal gated portcullis.

On either side of the gated entrance stood enormous defense towers, with battlements and ramparts extending around the outer perimeter of the castle.

Multiple levels of its glistening stone towers and turrets rose high above the mountain, reaching up into the heavens, proudly displaying the red pendragon of King Arthur’s heraldry on the many golden banners that rippled in the crisp spring winds.

The walled stone bridge which traversed the ravine and led to the castle permitted only three riders at a time, so each knight crossed with a page and squire riding at his sides.

When all ten winners of the Tournament of Champions had crossed, the knights of Cornwall entered the bailey of the castle, where they handed their horses and gear to the awaiting stable hands.

Servants ushered them to their quarters, informing the knights that a formal reception awaited them in the massive Great Hall.

Tristan washed up with the pitcher of water and basin in his chamber, then donned a clean tunic and breeches, after which his squire Lionel helped him with his new armor—including the surcoat bearing the Cornish chough —and his sword, Tahlfir .

He joined Vaughan, Connor, and the others in the corridor, following servants to the Great Hall where an elaborate feast welcomed them.

As the new knights stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, Tristan beheld the opulence of the Castle of Camelot.

The intricate ceiling consisted of three pointed wooden arches, painted in gold and adorned with red dragons, overlooking a vast room of glittering, gilded walls.

An elevated seating area, suspended high above the main floor, gave a splendid view of the sumptuous feast to a dozen of the highest-ranking nobles, the preferred guests of King Arthur Pendragon.

On the main floor, long tables—perpendicular to the royal dais—were covered with white damask tablecloths where centerpieces of ornately gilded pheasant, stuffed boar’s head and aromatic arrays of spiced meat pastries beckoned the royal guests.

Silver goblets of wine and ale glinted in the candlelight from the chandeliers overhead.

The enticing aroma of exotic foods wafted through the air, carried upon melodic currents from harmonious harps and violins.

King Arthur was seated in a golden throne upon a dais at the royal table, where Sir Lancelot stood to his right.

The First Knight of Camelot was tall and lean, with shoulder length wavy brown hair and a friendly countenance upon his handsome, youthful face.

Several other nobles sat at the royal table, with a blond queen dressed in white seated beside the king. Queen Guinevere, Tristan realized.

Lords and ladies, all dressed in fine silks and brocades, were seated amongst knights in shining armor at the elegantly decorated tables throughout the vast room.

Ten empty seats awaited the honored guests—the new knights representing the kingdom of Cornwall—at the table of distinction closest to the royal dais.

The herald trumpeted at the entrance to the Great Hall. Sir Lancelot of the Lake—the First Knight of Camelot—announced their arrival as he bowed and gestured to his king.

“Knights of Cornwall, Welcome! I present to you his Royal Majesty, King Arthur Pendragon, the High King of all Britain!”

The ten knights knelt before their royal sovereign, their heads bowed in fealty. They were then ushered to the table of honor, seated ceremoniously, and offered gleaming goblets of rich red wine.

King Arthur, splendidly attired in a red velvet cape and golden crown, adorned with magnificent gemstones, boomed joyously to greet them.

“Knights of Cornwall. Winners of the acclaimed Tournament of Champions. I congratulate you on your victory!”

Applause rippled through the jubilant crowd.

“My First Knight, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, will train you most vigorously for the next two years. Upon completion of your training, you will join my prestigious Knights of the Round Table. And defend all of Britain!”

Enthusiastic cheering ensued as the king raised his chalice of wine above his gilded head.

“To the winners of the Tournament of Champions. Welcome to Camelot!”

Tristan, Vaughan, Connor, and the others lifted their goblets as the joyous crowd roared. Sir Lancelot raised his silver goblet high.

“To the ten newest Knights of the Round Table. May you always prove worthy of this greatest honor!”

Beaming with pride, humbled with gratitude, Tristan and his fellow Cornish knights raised their goblets and drank.

Tristan grinned ferociously at Vaughan and Connor, his brothers in arms.

Their two-year adventure had begun.