Excalibur: Avalon, #1

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue

1604 BCE

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There is a definite way to know one is in the presence of a goddess.  For the acolytes of the Temple of the Bard, on the island of Atlantis, when the woman dressed in a pale blue dress strode in through the marble columns of the naos, there was no question that they beheld a deity.  As they scattered from the porch-like entrance to the massive complex, they called to others to flee as well, for it was assuredly undesirable to stay in the presence of this particular goddess on this occasion. 

It was not the woman’s raven black hair which drove the men and women to flee, nor her eyes the color of their beloved sea.  Neither was it her pale white skin the color of milk, rare in this part of the Mediterranean.  No, what screamed immortal from this particular woman and drove the acolytes before her was her mere presence; her inner fire.  Subconsciously, each felt the malice she held for them.  She wanted them all to die, and they knew it.  They also knew she could accomplish such with a mere thought.  Of course, the purple aura of magical energy surrounding her like a living fire was too hard to miss as well.

One poor unfortunate soul missed the flight of his companions, intent as he was on his flute solo.  His eyes closed on the sight of a dozen of his compatriots listening with rapt attention as he played a new mournful tune as a tribute to his recently deceased spouse.  When he opened them a moment later, his comrades had disappeared, replaced with a beautiful woman exuding hatred so powerful the emotion alone nearly choked him as she bore down upon the hapless fellow.  The goddess grasped the man by the throat and lifted him off his feet and shook him like a girl would a doll.

Where is HE? she shouted.  Where is Mannon?

The man’s eyes bulged, and he shook like a leaf in a thunderstorm as his right hand slowly slid up and a shaking finger pointed towards the entrance to the inner temple.  The goddess sneered and, still holding the man off the ground, pivoted and slammed him into a nearby marble column, giving the man a very pointed lesson that marble can survive a collision, but his bones could not.  As he heard his ribs snap like dry twigs, he did what came naturally - he screamed.  She pulled the man in close to whisper in his ear.

Yes, that is right.  Scream.  Scream loud.  Call to your precious god so that I might have words with him.

The man was all too happy to comply.  When his screams turned to whimpers, the goddess drove him into the marble column again, this time from the opposite side.  As the man’s screams returned, she pulled him in close once more.

You should pray that your screams bring him this time, she sneered.

A moment later, a tall, lean figure appeared in the doorway.  The figure hurried towards the goddess and her helpless victim.  He wore a toga style chiton similar to the acolytes but dyed a deep blue, a few shades darker than that of the goddess’ dress.  His long white hair and beard flowed behind him as his pace bore him forward.  His flinty black eyes fixed the goddess with a stare that would have struck fear in a lesser being.

If you have a grievance with me, Danu, I implore you not to involve these good folk, the figure said. Preta has done nothing to you.  Let him go, and we may talk.

Danu hissed.  Fine, Mannon.  I will let him go.  Leering, she squeezed her hand closed, causing the man to gasp his last before she tossed him aside like a rag.

Mannon looked down at the prone form.  Poor Preta.  He clenched his fists and then forced a deep breath into his lungs.  Escalating the situation would not benefit either of us.

What do you want, Danu?

The purple aura around her head danced wildly.  I want what is mine, Mannon.

He had expected this was the reason for the unexpected visit.  Danu was loathe to step into the realm of man, for any reason.  It would take a significant desire on her part to do so.  He shook his head.

I’m sorry, the sword is neither of ours. he said, folding his hands in front of him.

The purple aura exploded upward as if the fire found a stack of paper on which to feed.  My champion bested your champion.  The sword belongs to me! she screamed. 

Mannon fixed a picture of serenity on his face.  Nay, my Queen, our champions fought to a draw.  Yes, yours dealt a fatal blow to mine, but my champion had the last word.  They will fight again, a second time, to determine ownership of the sword. 

Her face erupted in a snarl, and her left hand curled into a fist before she pivoted and crunched a quick jab into the marble column,  Normally, a punch such as that would leave a woman’s hand a disfigured mass of broken bone and snapped tendon.  Danu’s blow, however, fractured the marble column in half.

Mannon calmly sidestepped to his right several paces before the top of the marble column crashed down where he stood moments before. 

I will have that sword, dear husband.  It belongs to me.  It belongs to the realm of the Fey.  I will take it by force if necessary.

Mannon smiled in response.  You know as well as I do, Danu, that our magic will not work on one another.  It is pointless to threaten me.

Danu pointed at Mannon’s cheek.  I can still hurt you.

He reached up and gingerly touched the three long scars which ran from his right ear to the corner of his mouth.  He nodded in agreement.  Yes, you can.  Not enough to wrest the sword from my care, though.

Danu’s fingers curled into claws and Mannon tensed.  Would she be foolish enough to attack him here, in his sanctuary?  Surely not.  Rather than strike at him, she gave him a feral smile. 

I might not be able to harm you, but we are not immortal.  I will find a way to destroy you and these pathetic offspring, she gestured to the crumpled body lying on the floor." 

With that, Danu whirled on her heels and strode from the Temple, leaving Mannon staring after her and scratching his thick beard.  He glanced down at the corpse on the floor and sighed.  It would be some time before his champion was reborn.  Perhaps I should move the temple somewhere else, keep it hidden from prying eyes.  Yes, that is what I need to do.  Find a place less civilized.  Perhaps north of here. 

His train of thought was interrupted by a scream emanating from the temple entrance behind him.  Turning, he saw Preta’s daughter Sofia running towards her father’s body, her blonde hair flying behind her, tears already beginning to well in her green eyes.  Mannon sighed.  He felt tired of this conflict, and the lives it harvested. 

He bent low over Preta, closing the man’s eyes.  Preta still wore his black chiton, a sign of mourning among the temple members.  His wife had passed several months before, the victim of an unusual tidal wave.  Which leaves poor Sofia all alone.  Sofia’s little feet slid to a stop next to her fallen father.  She bent over him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Papa! she said, tapping her hand on his shoulder. 

Mannon kneeled beside the little girl, and gently clasped his hand onto hers.  I’m sorry, Sofia.  Your papa is gone from us.  He has moved on.  Sofia buried her head in his arm and bawled.  Mannon scooped her up into his arms and stood.  His gaze turned towards the sea far below, and the many ships plying the harbor’s waters.  Thera was one of the largest ports in the Mediterranean, with constant traffic from Knossos, Athens, and even more exotic ports.  Disappearing from here would be easy.

He turned his head to look at Sofia, who was already calming.  Death comes so readily to those in this realm.  Even a child accepts it and moves on.  Mannon smiled at the little girl.  How would you like to go for a boat ride with me?  One day, your descendant is going to help our champion get a measure of revenge for your father.  Sofia smiled shyly at him, her blonde curls blowing in the constant sea breeze.  Yes, it is time to move the temple north to a place not yet civilized.

He knew that Danu would stop at nothing to have her champion possess the sword.  She would be unable to use it, though.  Only a human can wield the sword. I made sure of that. He carried Sofia as he walked back into the temple.  Mannon set her down inside so she could return to her nanny. Run along to Akilina. He called to the little girl.  Akilina herded all the young girls of the temple’s members, her sharp-eyed gaze seldom allowing any to stray for any length of time from their studies. 

Mannon called for several men to carry Preta’s body inside and assure that death rites were carried out.  Only then did he move towards his quarters.  They were a simple affair, not what his kind was used to, but he preferred that.  His quarters consisted of a small dining area stocked with fruits, cheeses, and olives, as well as an unremarkable bedroom stuffed with an oversized bed and dressing area.  He crossed the quarters and knelt by the bed as if in supplication.  Holding his hands out, Mannon muttered a few words under his breath.  The area between his hands shimmered as if the light were hit by a prism.  A few seconds later, a sword appeared there.

The blade shone in the late afternoon sun slipping through the windows.  What held Mannon’s attention were the sparkling jewels set in the hilt.  One ruby, one sapphire, and one emerald bathed the small room in a kaleidoscope of colors as the god tilted the blade first one way and then another.  I shall have to figure out how to hide you properly. 

He reflected on the work and sacrifice of those who crafted this magnificent weapon.  He shuddered at how close all that they had worked for had come to failing.  The next champion will be better crafted.  More raw at first, yes, but honed to a razor by the end.  He will have to be, to endure the final battle.

CHAPTER TWO

Dreams

Present Day

The hoof beats thundered across the dry plains, throwing up tiny clouds of dust into the air. Air that seemed to quiet in anticipation.  The horse he was astride galloped across the grassland, and he reveled at the wind striking his face.  He raised a cry from his lips, screaming with fury to the Gods, any Gods - a call that soon echoed from the riders behind him.  He felt the adrenaline surge through his body, flooding him with artificial courage. 

He felt the sword throb in his hand, swelling with power as he surged across the grassland.  He raised the now glowing sword as the horse underneath him gathered itself to leap over the glittering spear tips lowered to meet his charge.

Alexander McTiernan woke with a start, sitting upright as he heard the chime of his cell phone alarm.  He sighed and vowed to himself once again to refrain from watching The Lord of the Rings before slipping off to sleep.  Alex’d had the same dream every night for almost a week.  He laid back in bed trying to gain a few more minutes of sleep. 

The persistent chirp of his cell phone’s alarm pried into his consciousness again.  He groaned and stood, stretching to his full six-foot height.  He was built like a professional cyclist – tall, long-legged, but as thin as a pencil.  The mop of unruly reddish-brown hair and turquoise eyes belied his Irish heritage.  Many would call him handsome, that is except for a long deep scar running the length of his right cheek, stretching from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth. 

The scar was a product of a car accident which happened 4 years ago when Alex had first received his driver’s permit.  He had been so excited at the potential jump in freedom he was about to possess, that he insisted on driving his parents home from the high school play Alex had performed in.  All was going well, as Alex left the parking lot, with his father beside him, and his mother sitting quietly in the backseat. His father lectured Alex in his quiet way about road safety. 

How many car lengths behind the car in front of you should you leave?  The car on the right or left has the right of way?  What is the speed limit through here?

While he had suffered through his father’s lectures before, as they drove through the winding roads along the coast of Maine, Alex began to experience something new.  As he passed houses, he heard them talking.  Chanting, actually. 

Defender, Defender, Defender.

Understandably, he freaked out and lost concentration just as a dark object crossed the road in front of the car.  Alex was examining a particularly menacing white colonial that had formed a mouth over the front door when he saw the dark blob, probably a moose, out of the corner of his eye.  Reacting from his inexperience, Alex jerked the wheel to avoid a collision.  The giant spruce tree illuminated from the headlights was the last object he saw that night.

Unfortunately, when Alex awoke, he had been the recipient of that long scar, a leg broken in four places, and the loss of both of his parents.  It was the night his life had changed.  When he recalled the events of the evening for the accident investigators, Alex was given a psychological evaluation and deemed to have schizophrenia.  As the doctor explained to Alex, it did not mean he had split personalities as the stereotype indicated, but instead had hallucinations or personality changes.  Perhaps he would even hear voices in his head. 

Despite the doctor’s assurances that this would remain confidential, two days after his evaluation, the local newspaper carried a follow-up story to the car accident.  In the article, Alex’s medical diagnosis was leaked by a confidential source.  He was labeled as nuts by his classmates, and promptly shunned by many of his longtime friends. 

He had finished high school, but not with the same passion for life he'd shown so vibrantly before.  His grandparents had taken him in, saving him from an angst-ridden ride through foster homes.  He excelled in high school, mostly with the support of his best friend and his grandparents, although neither grandparent had been educated beyond the elementary school level.  He had been courted by many colleges, finally settling on Beane University, about a twenty minute ride north of Portland along the coast of Maine.

Now he was in his senior year, looking forward to graduating in the spring.  Well, he reflected looking at the clock, if I get to class.  He dressed quickly, throwing on a pair of faded blue jeans, hiking boots, a faded T-shirt with a shamrock emblazoned on the front and a New England Patriots sweatshirt which was nearly worn through in several places from use.  He rarely went anywhere without it. 

He walked quickly out of his dorm room, down 3 flights of stairs and out into the brisk morning sunshine.  It was an icy November morning, and as he hurried across the open expanse of the college campus, he observed how few leaves were left on the massive oak trees, their trunks glistening with little frost crystals. 

He crossed through Neiman Park, with its open lawn and hundred year old oak trees, darted through the traffic on Eastland Ave.  Alex turned up the granite steps of Bingham Memorial Building, home to the History Department, eager to get to his seat in the oval auditorium, whose shape reminded Alex of a Roman amphitheater. 

Alex always looked forward to his first class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.  Professor Tweed taught Ancient Symbolism.  Not only was the professor one of the most attractive women Alex had ever seen, but the subject also fascinated him. 

Emily waited for him as he approached the entrance to the building.  Alex grinned at her morning smile.  He took the offered cup of coffee she presented as she greeted him.  Emily Lockhardt was almost a foot shorter than he was, with chestnut hair falling in curls to her shoulders and her face splattered with freckles nearly the same shade of brown as her eyes.  Emily’s family lived down the street from where Alex had lived with his parents, and the pair had been inseparable for much of their lives.  Her parents owned a popular outdoor store, and Emily had grown up around camping and kayaking equipment, becoming lean, muscular and with a nearly year-round tan.

Fuck you, bro, she said as she punched him playfully in the arm.

Hey!  Fuck you too, he replied back, finishing their traditional greeting.

They walked into the auditorium together, and Alex sat in his usual seat in the front row, with Emily taking up the position behind and to the left of him.  They were early, and as Professor Tweed walked in from the door connected to her office, she smiled winningly at Alex.

Alex, good morning.

His breath caught in his throat.  Professor Nessa Tweed’s smile was brilliant, all white teeth which contrasted sharply with her skin tanned to a perfect nutmeg brown.  Her blonde hair fell in small ringlets down to her perfectly proportioned buttocks.  Today she had dressed in a black skirt which showed off her shapely legs and a brilliantly white blouse. 

Good morning, Professor he managed to stutter. 

She paused, examining him more closely.  Alex, you look...tired.  You need to cut down on your Playboy lifestyle.  She winked playfully at him.  It was a private joke between the two of them, as Tweed knew well of his awkwardness when it came to the opposite sex.  Alex didn’t catch the eye roll and grimace that crossed Emily’s face.  Nessa, however, did not miss the reaction and smiled even brighter.  There seemed an undercurrent of friction between the two women, enough that Alex could sense it.

This was the third class of hers Alex had taken, and they had become something close to friends.  During the latter portion of the first course he had attended with her, in a misguided attempt to describe his feelings for her, he’d confessed he’d never had a date. 

In her well-meaning teasing style, Professor Tweed made it their private joke.  Even though she sometimes took her teasing too far, they remain close, with Tweed acting as a mentor and friend to Alex, despite the twenty plus year age difference.  He smiled at her joke, despite the barb hidden within. 

She began her lecture. Good morning, everyone.  Can anyone identify the symbol on the screen?  The screen changed to display a single symbol of a creature with gold scales, a long serpentine tongue, substantial leathery wings, and horns protruding from an elongated skull.

It’s a dragon. a student piped in from the back row.

Precisely. responded Tweed.  Dragons are mythological creatures which appear in many cultures across the globe.  In each case, dragons represent wisdom, royalty, and in most, are feared as well.  The word dragon is derived from two Greek words – one meaning ‘a huge serpent or snake’ and the other ‘I see clearly.’  In China, dragons indicate a mastery of all four elements, she paused. And those are?

Alex chimed Air, Earth, Water, & Fire. 

Yes, Alex. Tweed smiled at him. These four basic elements compose all life on Earth, according to the Chinese.  In the Smithsonian Natural History Museum in New York, there is an Onyx dragon figurine encrusted with sapphires, and emeralds.  The eyes of the dragon are made of rubies.  The Onyx represents earth, the sapphires water, the emeralds air, and the rubies fire.  Earth is opposed by water, air with fire.  The Chinese believed that perfect harmony was achieved when the four elements balanced each other, she clicked the slide to illustrate this work of art. "In Celtic mythology, there were two types of dragons.  The first was the traditional winged version we see depicted in many settings, and the other was shown as a giant sea serpent, not unlike the Chinese version we saw earlier. 

The Celts believed the dragon was a creature of a different plane, parallel to ours.  Dragons were also thought to be guardians and protectors of all living things, and gatekeepers to other worlds.  This has carried into modern times, as the Welsh flag contains the symbol of the red dragon. 

Anyone want to venture a guess who the first Celt was to use a dragon as a family crest?"  she inquired.

Silence met her inquisitive look as she surveyed the room.  Emily hesitated for a moment, and spoke. Uther Pendragon?

Professor Tweed chuckled as she responded, Absolutely correct, Emily!  King Arthur’s father’s red dragon emblem was reportedly emblazoned on his helmet.  Even his sir name, Pendragon, means ‘Chief Dragon.’  The ‘Once and Future King’ symbolizes the combination of the guardian & protectors aspect of the mythological dragon – being there for Britain in her hour of need.

Alex listened intently as Tweed continued.  He had always found the legend of King Arthur fascinating.  As a child Alex had played for hours in the woods behind his family’s farm, first as King Arthur, then Gawain, then finally as other Knights of the Round Table.  Le Morte D’Arthur was one of the first books he could remember reading, and he smiled as he fondly recalled the long summer nights curled up in bed reading this novel over and over again until the ink faded.

The pair of friends went their separate ways after Tweed’s symbolism class.  Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were Alex’s busy days, with additional courses in Organic Chemistry and Natural Resource Conservation, while Emily had one other course in Economics before she made the drive to her parent’s outdoor store for an afternoon of work.  Before parting, the two made plans to catch up after dinner. 

Alex exited Bingham Hall and walked the one main route through campus, weaving through the roaring traffic to reach Dunstan Hall, a large brick structure looming on a small rise.  The building housed the University’s physical science programs and was home to Alex’s Organic Chemistry class.  Dunstan Hall reminded Alex of the creepily haunted buildings on those paranormal shows that Emily watched regularly.  The turn-of-the-century hall was the oldest remaining building on campus, having survived a disastrous fire in 1935 which burned most of the university to the ground.  The red bricks were still smudged in places by the soot from that devastation.  Combined with windows that seemed perpetually darkened by shadow, the building made Alex’s skin crawl every time he approached the structure.  Alex gained the top of the rise and crossed the entryway before a voice chilled him to the bone.

Defender, came a voice from the building.

Alex paused and looked around.  The few students in view were too far away to have called out without shouting.  He shook his head.  Great.  Now I am imagining things.  He took another step towards the front door, and the voice came again.

Defender, it is time.

Great.  Now I am not imagining things.

He glanced around once more.  The nearest students were still too far away for the voice.  He looked at the building carefully.  The entry door was framed by two windows, one on each side.  The appearance of the darkened windows and the door reminded Alex of a set of eyes and nose glowering down at him.  As he watched, the entry stones beneath his feet parted to form a slash of a mouth.

Defender, it is time.  Find the sword.

Alex whitened.  A memory flashed through his head, of a particular night four years ago.  Oh shit.  Oh shit.  Not again.

He bolted down the hill, running like a broken field Usain Bolt, dodging other students as he fled the talking building, class forgotten in his haste to put distance between himself and his hallucination.

CHAPTER THREE

Nights in White Coats

Ok Alex, tell me what brings you here on short notice?

Alex looked up as the speaker entered the room.  David Ross plunked down in a leather armchair across from its twin that Alex occupied.  Dr. Ross was a man in his mid-40s, trim and his chestnut hair cut low and tight, owing to his time as a military psychologist. After Alex’s car accident, Alex was sent to him for diagnosis and treatment.

I’m starting to have hallucinations again, Dr. Ross. Alex sighed. 

Dr. Ross leaned forward.  It’s been a while since you’ve had any symptoms of your schizophrenia.  Can you tell me about it?

Alex related his experiences with Dunstan Hall.  Dr. Ross sat back in his chair. 

What, exactly, did the building say to you?

It called me ‘Defender,’ just like on that night of the accident.  It also said something about finding a sword.

Ross’ grip tightened on the chair arms.  Finding a sword?  I don’t recall that in any of your previous hallucinations.

Alex shrugged. It’s the first I’ve ever heard of it.  I think it might be because I’ve been watching ‘Lord of the Rings’ a lot lately.  I don’t know.

Hallucinations don’t always make sense, Alex.  In fact, they rarely do.  I would not put too much thought into it.  Episodes can be brought on by different environmental factors, such as stress.  How is your stress level?

Alex shrugged.  Normal, I guess?  It’s not any different than it was at the start of the semester.

The anniversary of the car accident is just a few weeks away.  Do you think subconsciously that might have something to do with it?

I don’t know.  I hadn’t even thought about it.  Well, I mean, I think about it, of course.  But it hasn’t been on my mind a lot lately.  It just pops in there every now and again, like if I go home and visit my grandparents.

It’s probably simmering in your subconscious.  This will be the fifth year anniversary, correct?

Alex nodded, feeling the familiar knot form in his chest when he thought about his parents’ death.

Hmm, Dr. Ross murmured. You’ve done well without medication so far.  Perhaps we will consider some if these hallucinations continue.  You will let me know if they continue?  Dr. Ross rose to show Alex to the door.

After Alex left, Dr. Ross moved to the chair behind his desk and dropped into it, leaning back heavily.  He glanced up at the ceiling and rubbed his chin in thought.  He rotated in his chair, and his blue eyes roved over the wall, fixing on a painting hung almost directly behind his desk.  The salmon-colored background contrasted elegantly with the stark black outline of a hand.  Ross scowled at the picture and then sighed.

He turned back to his desk and picked up the phone, dialing a number by memory.  He waited for a voice to answer.

Yeah, it's me.  I think I found him.  I’ll send the information in a few moments.

Excellent.  Thank you, Doctor.  You will be well rewarded if the information is valid, the voice responded and then disconnected.

––––––––

Later that evening, Alex and Emily sat in Emily’s dorm room.  Emily was engrossed in a chapter of her Economics textbook, while Alex tried to focus on his Calculus homework.  Professor Tweed’s lecture still bubbled in Alex’s mind, however, and his eyes roved the room, taking in her stately dorm room. His room always seemed small and unkempt, like it barely survived a tornado touchdown.  Emily’s was precisely the opposite, constantly neat, clean, and with an air of refinement which was a shrine to her obsessive-compulsive disorder.  His gaze fixed, as it ever did, on the porcelain statue of a small winged dragon which stood on top of her TV stand.

Em, he began. What did you think of Professor Tweed’s lecture this morning?

She glanced up at him through her bangs. It was ok, she said.

Alex rolled his eyes. I mean the material.  You know my fascination with dragons.  They’ve been showing up lately in my dreams.