Summary
In disguise, Killian surveils Camelot's coronation security seeking opportunities to steal magical artifacts for his and Mordred's planned vengeance.
Chapter 16 Dragon's Lair Revisited
Killian, youngest son of a noble House of Gawant, pulled his hood closer. Though he still bore the look of Killian, he now wore the fine silks of a visiting lordling rather than a knight. He slipped through Camelot's crowded lanes, spite corroding his tongue at their careless cheer. Vigilant eyes scanned all as he strove toward his destination.
The increase in fortifications along the battlements and heavily armed soldiers patrolling the streets urged caution, escape routes and hiding places marked if needed to avoid or evade. A scowl flicked. The sheer number of people throughout Camelot proper warned against haste – delay plans – perhaps a week or longer.
Still, necessity dictated an assessment of the vaults' security. Without the artifacts, their plans may need simplifying to something less than desired that won't satisfy their appetites for vengeance. Raucous laughter erupted nearby – a staggering man knocked into Killian, sloshing pilfered ale over his silk tunic before strangers roughly hauled the sot away. He scoffed with a throaty growl, but continued toward his destination.
Although crowds complicated matters now, he considered opportunities for advantage could emerge in time. After weeks crafting contingency schemes, they were nothing if not patient. Camelot's gilded era would soon expire; he and Mordred would ensure that – one exquisite step at a time.
Killian crossed into the timber-framed buildings of the upper town, emerging onto a wide avenue where raised voices drew him toward a tavern brimming with tension and harsh words. Curious, his eyes flicked to the sign above it – the Red Lion.
"...your soft hearts welcome evil within the gates—within your homes!" a foreign accent bellowed as he approached. "Do not be deceived! Magic corrupts utterly. Its very existence is a plague upon the righteous and just."
Killian's lip curled with contempt as he peered with others gathered at the open door, glimpsing an elder nobleman – an Alexandrian by his dressed – holding court among the tavern's refined patrons. They hung on his every impassioned word, expressions rapt.
"Stand idle no more while sorcery spreads its sinister grip on Camelot!" Mutters echoed his warning to superstitious ears. "We must take action to protect kith and kin from latent evil in our midst!"
Killian scoffed and turned back to path. He cared nothing for the venom this foreign serpent spewed against magic and its kin – in that, the misguided mob was akin to Uther's wretched reign. Yet perhaps the poisons he spreads to the masses fuel these fervent crowds against their sanguine king, crumbling his house from the inside. The thought brought a sly smile as Killian receded into the crowds.
In the courtyard, he ascended the citadel steps, mixed with the flow of other arrivals. Passing through the check point with forged papers of nobility, he lowered the hood and reluctantly yielded his sword and dagger, bristling at being weaponless amongst his enemies.
Navigating the route Dodd had laid out from his drawings, Killian aimed upward for the vaults on the fifth floor. He wove through a throng of people – passed busy servants, nobles and commoners dressed in their best, awe and wonderment on their faces. But mostly, he noticed many heavily armed soldiers of Camelot and knights from around the realm sentried along opulent corridors.
As hard as it was for him, he smiled to appear pleasant as if he belonged in the cheerful castle alit with light and song and joy. He ran fingers along a flower garland roped on stands and running along the walls. Resisting the softness of the petals and the fragrance excited by his touch, he snatched a tankard of beer from the tray of a passing servant, taking a soothing swallow.
He turned toward the southeast corner, toward the turret. A pair of armed guards approaching split the crowd as they marched through. Killian made no eye contact, his focus on the entrance to the stairwell just ahead. The small space teemed with people too, flowing up and down the tight curves of the turret, much the same as his flight from Knight Maxwell all those weeks ago.
Exiting onto the second floor, two guards with lance and sword were stationed at the arch. He crisscrossed this level to take the northwest turret. More guards and people filled the open area, most spilling through the doors of the lesser hall – waiting for an audience with the king and queen. Knights protected those doors, their red cloaks and emblazoned dragons no doubt inspiring some and intimidating others.
With a slow roll of his eyes and jaws cinching, Killian shouldered his way through the people, the buzz of chatter and laughter vibrating the room and irritating his nerves. Entering the turret where sentries were also positioned, he noticed no stream of people flowed between the third and fourth levels – the royals keep. Yet, he ventured onward.
Just before the turn, he paused, glanced behind him and then forward, his thoughts triggering obstacles that could lay ahead. What business had he beyond the fourth level? The fifth floor would doubtless boast tighter security.
Chewing his lip, Killian eyed his pilfered tankard and the stain on his tunic as inspiration struck – the sloshing sot had indeed granted him advantage. He nearly drained the vessel with exaggerated gulps, adding theatrical swagger to his stumbling ascent around the bend.
Two lances immediately blocked his path at the entrance as he landed on the last step. Killian swayed a little, his head bouncing from one guard to the other, eyes heavy-laden.
"Turn around, sir," one warned sternly, gaze raking over his foreign garb. "You have no business here."
"What?" Killian feigned a wide, drunken grin and raised his tankard. "I'm here for the celebrations." He knitted his brow and pressed his lips thin, looking around quizzically. "Where am I?"
"Some place you don't belong," the guard said tightly. "The celebrations are below."
He gulped another drink. A servant from behind the sentries then appeared carrying a tray with remnants of a meal. Killian's eyes cataloged three servings as they let the servant pass and the lances returned to impede his advance.
"Food you say?" Killian slurred, swaying to glimpse through the lances. "Might you kind sirs spare a morsel...?" He stumbled to his left, supporting himself against the wall, peering past their shoulders.
"You're inebriated, my lord," said the other. "Perhaps you should return to your quarters instead."
Killian snorted indignance. "Very well, good sirs," he replied, offering them a sloppy bow before descending.
Out of their view, he straightened his posture, shedding his drunken pretense. He descended to the third floor, tallying obstacles – at least five guards barring upper access, likely more hidden within.
He drifted through the castle, blending into celebratory groups to track sentry patterns, climbed all the turrets to each level – at least eight guards per floor. Shift changes occurred on the hour. Patrols moved at irregular intervals.
Killian lingered in an alcove, mapping routes and markings. His sharp eyes dissected spaces between guards, sentry positions at entries and exits. The crowds could aid escape, but progress would be challenged if he must move with haste. For now, patience and preparation ruled the day.
Returning to the second level, he leaned heavily against the wall, resuming his drunken act while scrutinizing the flow of petitioning subjects. Fingers flexing around a fresh tankard of ale, he quietly inventoried soldiers flanking nobility and servants alike.
His eyes drifted to the lesser hall – the hallowed chamber where his kin had been judged. What security surrounded the Pendragons within? Seeking to observe his targets, he wove among merry subjects and entered the chambers.
As expected, knights stood vigil over courtiers in finery intermingling alongside humbly dressed peasants. His gaze swept to the perimeter, flames danced on candelabras lining granite walls, six great columns splitting the chambers into three sections. Great red banners with gold dragons draped arched windows behind the thrones, fading sunlight streaming in. His eyes settled on Pendragon.
King Arthur sat resplendent on the throne, golden circlet glinting atop flaxen hair. His embroidered tunic could not hide the muscled frame of a hardened warrior beneath. Queen Guinevere sat beside him, adorned with rubies glinting from her ears and throat. Waves of brown locks flowed beneath a few banded braids. Even lacking crown, her bearing filled the hall with a luminous grace. Killian's jaw cinched.
The dragon and his peasant queen – one who captured our mistress.
His gaze drifted to Merlin standing on Pendragon's right – deceptively passive for a mighty sorcerer.
He who subdued Morgana.
He regarded the protection around the monarchs. A soldier stood between the queen and the seven knights flanking them – Sir Maxwell not present. His eyes flicked back to the soldier – formidable bearing – alert eyes darting over the court. Killian had bumped shoulders with him a few days ago in middle town – perhaps he too recalled faces. Focusing inward, he tapped into his innate magical gifts, concentrated on a new visage in his mind's eye, felt a tingling sensation wash over his face. His facial structure shifted subtly, just enough that he would not be immediately recognized.
A giant knight escorted nobles before the king as Killian glided forward slowly. He recognized those men – two who'd unintentionally aided his escape last month when they'd restrained Sir Maxwell. Though his face was slightly altered he halted, needing no closer vantage near a column in the quieted hall.
"Sir John. Lady Isabella." Arthur welcomed the elderly couple, the deep pitch of his voice carrying across the chamber. "We are pleased to see you in our court once again."
"King Arthur. Queen Guinevere," Sir John said with an appreciative tilt. "We are in your great debt once more. Your courage has saved this kingdom from destruction again and again."
Killian scoffed. Sycophants, all. What of the innocents you've not saved, Arthur Pendragon? The practitioners whose gifts you've crushed rather than fostered? Yes, feed the dragon's ego while you can. He'll need something from which to draw strength before we finish things.
The king replied. "I could not have succeeded without my knights, our allies, and my beautiful wife." He cast an adoring glance at his queen.
Fallacious boar. Killian scowled, his jaw flexed. My mistress whose throne you sit and power you chained – your hypocrisy sickens me. We shall open your eyes to your hollow nobility and false humility. By my blade, your sins will revisit you until you beg the mercy you never granted.
"Congratulations, Queen Guinevere." Lady Isabella said. "I never imaged the young girl barefoot in my kitchens would rise to such greatness. We are all so very proud of you, my dear."
The queen smiled graciously. "Please, you've called me Gwen since I was a child. Let us not stand on ceremony now when you have loved me as family. Thank you for coming, my lady."
This servant now sat undeserved beside the tyrant, yet torment awaited her too. With a slow inhale, Killian vowed to bury his losses when their blood flowed and their pitiful lives were ground beneath his heel at last. When he and Mordred washed clean their rotting kingdom, and just order prevailed. The wretched subjects cheering now would weep and gnash their teeth at his righteous correction and when their rightful queen returned.
The thought warmed him like spiced wine. He eased back a step, trading an acknowledging nod with a nearby knight. Still facing forward, he slid effortlessly into the periphery of courtiers. A few graceful steps through their ranks and he passed silently into the corridor beyond, leaving them to bask in their hubris.
Night had claimed the city when he reunited with Mordred at their discreet refuge. "The celebrations are well guarded, my friend. What did you learn?" Killian asked. The boy's reply could prove useful in the days ahead. Though other challenges still lay before them, they readied their opening moves, prepared for the right moment to set their plans in motion.