Page 55

The Morholt

The twenty Knights of the Round Table, each leading a troop of a hundred men at arms, rode hard across the forest of southern Britain, arriving in Cornwall to find King Marke’s knights heavily engaged in battle with hundreds of Viking warriors who were still disembarking on the beach in front of the castle of Tintagel.

Red and white striped sails of sleek drakkar warships—oars protruding from the bellies of the loathsome vessels with fearsome dragons blazing at the prow—littered the beaches as heavily armed Viking warriors stormed the Atlantic shore.

Blood soaked the white sand as the clash of metal swords and the shrieks of dying men rent the salt strewn air.

Sir Bedivere, King Arthur’s marshal, strategically divided the riders from Camelot, dispatching them to reinforce Gorvenal and the beleaguered knights of Cornwall, staggering under the Viking assault.

Tristan, Lancelot, and Indulf were among the group sent to the south shore, where the defending army was facing the thickest onslaught of invaders.

The conical helmets, braided beards, and heavy chain mail armor of the Viking army were a relentless wave crashing upon the craggy coast of Cornwall.

Lancelot, in his white armor atop his white warhorse, blazed through the Vikings surging towards the castle, felling three warriors with ease.

Tristan, on his destrier, slew two attackers, driving his blade into the exposed throat of one Viking and the groin of another.

Indulf impaled a third, penetrating the Nordic mail with the sharp, narrow tip of his estoc.

While most of the invading army was on foot, many Vikings were riding the same destriers as the knights from Camelot.

As the deafening roar of battle continued in full force all around him, Tristan glimpsed an enormous warrior, clad in black armor astride a black warhorse, facing him in challenge.

The Morholt — indomitable and undefeated in battle .

The Viking’s bushy red hair extended past his shoulders, braided into two sections like large horns.

An equally long red beard was divided and braided as well, like two enormous fangs extending from his massive jaw.

A large black plume rose from his intricately carved headpiece, and the golden dragon upon the warrior’s black armor glistened with the congealed blood of the opponents he had slain.

The Morholt raised his sword in challenge, spurred his horse, and galloped directly toward Tristan.

For a split second, Tristan was a trembling eight-year-old boy again, watching helplessly as the massive arm of the Viking dropped like an axe. His body shook; his mouth went dry. He was light-headed, woozy.

The sea raven ring throbbed on his finger inside the gauntlet.

Years of impotent rage flooded him. The Viking who beheaded his father.

The monsters who brutalized his innocent sister, her piercing shrieks scraping up his spine.

His beautiful mother, struggling vainly against the beasts who restrained her.

The bloody blade which tore open her fragile white throat.

Fury fueled his sword as Tristan galloped toward the oncoming enemy. With a vicious slice, the Morholt slashed the foreleg of Tristan’s horse, throwing him forward onto the sandy beach. Sweat stung his eyes as he shook the sand from his face.

He quickly recovered his footing and turned to prepare for the Black Knight’s next assault. As the Viking charged, Tristan deftly toppled him as well. The two warriors were now engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

The Viking’s arms were as thick as tree trunks.

The force of each blow against Tristan’s shield caused him to stagger nearly to the ground.

It finally shattered, splintering apart with the impact of the Morholt’s massive sword.

The Viking, his victory imminent, roared in laughter—the bellow of a mighty beast.

The Black Knight stank with sweat and filth. The blood of Tristan’s Cornish brothers—who had died defending their king, his uncle Marke. The last remaining member of his slaughtered family. Rage flared in Tristan’s gut as he crouched into the stance Lancelot had taught him.

The months of training at la Joyeuse Garde had prepared him.

The otherworldly maneuvers of the Avalonian Elves he’d mastered.

The ferocity and tenacity of the Tribe of Dana which flowed in his veins.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, Tristan perfectly executed a maneuver that Lancelot had taught him, cleaving the Morholt’s headpiece in two, deeply embedding his hefted blade into the Viking’s vile skull.

Yet, in a simultaneous move, his opponent’s deadly weapon carved through Tristan’s armor, slicing him across the abdomen, as the Viking fell to his knees and collapsed face first into the sand.

Tristan removed his sword Tahlfir from the Morholt’s headpiece.

A section of the blade had broken off and was still embedded in the Viking’s skull.

As he lifted his sword and straightened his back, Tristan’s wound began to burn savagely.

His mouth went numb; his tongue swelled in his throat.

Icy tingling crept up his limbs; he wobbled unsteadily on his feet.

The last thing Tristan saw was Lancelot charging toward him as he lost consciousness and darkness overtook him.

****

Lancelot had seen Tristan kill the Morholt, flawlessly executing the Elven technique he’d learned last summer.

But he’d also seen the potentially fatal blow inflicted by the Viking in his dying move.

He called two of his men to carry Tristan to the nearby dock where King Marke’s ships were anchored.

The Morholt had the reputation of wielding a poisoned sword, so Lancelot wrapped the Viking blade in a blanket from the back of a nearby fallen horse.

Tucking the Black Knight’s sword under his arm, Lancelot rushed to join his injured friend, now aboard the boat, flanked by the knights who had carried him, awaiting Lancelot’s orders.

He summoned a few of the crew members stationed inside the boathouse, ordering them to sail south to Bretagne with utmost speed.

Lancelot glanced back at the bloody battlefield in front of Tintagel as the ship left port.

The Viking ships were also departing, the invading army in retreat now that the Morholt had been slain and two thousand men from Camelot had arrived to aid King Marke.

The reinforcements sent by King Arthur to defend Cornwall had been the decisive factor in the successful defense of the castle of Tintagel.

The Irish invasion had failed, the indomitable Morholt defeated.

Lancelot heaved a sigh of relief and turned his attention to his critically injured friend.

He packed a compress of clean cloth against Tristan’s abdomen, for the slice was deep, and he was losing a great deal of blood.

Lancelot removed Tristan’s armor and dressed the wounded knight in his own, hoping that the spells of protection that his mother—the Fairy Viviane—had imbued within it would keep Tristan alive until they reached Avalon.

Where he prayed the Goddess would heal him.