Alright, here it is. The first chapter in the sequel to Merlin's Heart. I have taken pains to try and get the Welsh bits as accurate as possible, but I'm sure there's probably some errors there. Feel free to comment about them in the reviews. Or about anything else. Hope you enjoy!
The Lost King—Chapter 1
There was something strange about the wind. Despite being early December, it held all the warmth of a summer's afternoon. It started high up on the peaks of Snowdon and blew south, winding its way through the oak forests and shadowed valleys bellow. As it passed, the world was awakened with a life it had not seen since long before the age of man. It was the Wild Magic, magic free and unrestrained. It was the magic of life itself. And now, it had returned.
Consciousness flowed back into the ash and rowan trees, the elms and aspens. Like gnarled old men, they groaned and stretched their boughs. Even the rock and stone came alive, trembling and rumbling, grinding their way down the mountain. The water ran sweeter as it skipped along playfully in its brooks and rivers. The air hummed with exotic fragrances and the lilting music of nature herself.
The long-forgotten creatures of magic also sprang back into existence. Tylwyth Tegs, dryads, elves, and pixies danced merrily through the woods again. Giants climbed the ravines and mountains, searching for their homes of old. Ceffyl Dŵr swam through the coursing waters, and galloped over waterfalls. And pwcas, playing tag among the cliffs, frightened off a pair of hikers, who had come to Snowdonia on holiday.
But it was far to the south, in the middle of a gently rolling meadow valley, that an ancient evil stirred. Long had it slept, held at bay by the priests of the Old Religion. For when it woke, no one could best it. The Afanc, it was called. Part demon, part dragon, it had taken scores of sorcerers versed in the strongest magics to subdue it. But now the Wild Magic was about and it had roused the imprisoned beast. Up from its watery prison of Llyn Barfog it emerged, towering far over the countryside. The smell of decomposing matter clung to its black-scaled hide. Shaking loose the tautly stretched membrane of its wings, it surveyed its surroundings. Two yellow slits of eyes watched warily for its captors, and, when none came, its snout curved into a razor-toothed smile. Over the valley, a thunderous roar of triumph and rage echoed. The Afanc would have its revenge.
"Oi, Gareth! Look ad dat." The curly, grey hair captain bellowed, knocking on the cabin window and pointing far off into the distance.
The man on deck, dropped a net to the ground and peered out across the lake. "Aye, Big Tom," he yelled over the clunky trawler motor. "I see it! Beth ydyw?"
Tomos slowed the motor and steered his small fishing boat toward an island that he was nearly positive he had never seen before. This was greatly confusing to him, seeing as he had fished the waters here since he was a child. How could an island suddenly appear out of nowhere?
The island was small, maybe half a kilometer wide at most, vastly overgrown, and surrounded entirely by a rocky beach. The interior was a mess of ancient moss-strewn trees and choking vines. In fact, the plant life now dominated what seemed to be a ruined stone castle. Overall, it had a strange, otherworldly feel about it and Tomos was wary of getting closer.
Suddenly, Gareth gave an excited shout. "Big Tom!" The younger, fatter man yelled, waving his hands in the air. "Look! Ders someone on da beach!" His Welsh accent always thickened when he was excited by something. He pointed towards the farthest outcropping of the shore.
Tom reluctantly circled his trawler closer, until at last the man on the shore came into view. He eyed the man cautiously as he approached. The man was waving frantically at them and shouting. And for some reason, he wasn't wearing any clothes, only some strung together leaves and moss.
Gareth's eyes were big as saucers. "Tom, he's na-ked! Do ya think he's been wrecked?"
Tom scratched the curly beard that matched his hair and nodded. "Musta been. I'll pull closer and you tell 'em to swim for it." He carefully maneuvered his small boat as close to the stoney shore as he dared. He watched Gareth signal to the man.
"You gonna 'ave ta swim! We canno' get closer!" He yelled.
The man responded by jumping expertly into the icy water. With large, powerful strokes, he made short work of the swim to the boat. Gareth threw down a ladder and the man climbed aboard.
He stood dripping and shivering on the deck while Gareth searched for something to cover him. Immediately, Tomos noticed something was strange about the man, nakedness aside. He had a presence about him that commanded authority, despite being somewhat young in years.
Finally, Gareth managed to find a moth-eaten woolen blanket that wreaked of fish and an extra pair of welly's. The man took both gratefully, despite the stench, and scanned the boat with a pair of brilliantly blue eyes hidden by soggy blonde hair.
Gareth leaned his large frame against the rail, and asked, "How'd you come to be out 'ere? Der ain't nuddin around 'ere."
The man eyed the receding island and shivered. "I'm not really sure...actually. My memory seems to be a bit... unclear." He spoke stiffly and strangely, but with a voice that was strong and confident. As he spoke, he placed a hand absently to his left side and winced.
When they were clear of the island and any treacherous rocks that might have lurked below the surface, Tomos brought the trawler to full stop. He snatched up his favorite meerschaum pipe. Leaving his cabin, he lit his pipe, and approached Gareth and the stranger.
"Name's Tomos," he said gruffly, thrusting out his hand, which was gripped powerfully by the stranger.
"Arthur." He replied.
Tom continued. "Dissun 'ere is Gareth. 'Tis my ship yer on." He nodded towards the fat man on the railing. Then, he tapped his pipe against the cabin frame and the fragrant smoke wafted over the deck.
"I thank you for your hospitality," said the man named Arthur. He offered a short, curt bow. "But if you gentlemen don't mind, I need to get back to Camelot."
Gareth's mouth fell open, but Big Tom's face remained unreadable. "Camelot, aye? Bit o un od nad, ydych chi?"
Arthur nodded, slowly, unsure of the man's meaning. "Yes? Em, actually, if you could just get me to shore, I will trouble you no longer. And when I return to Camelot, I will see that you are rewarded for your kindness."
Tom chewed his pipe. "Mmmph." With a slight twinkle in his black eyes, he said, "Den a lift to shore, you shall 'ave, your 'ighness."