A Knight in Distress: New Camelot, #1

Champagne Book Group Presents

A Knight in Distress

By

Barbara Russell

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Champagne Book Group

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2018 by Barbara Russell

ISBN 978-1-947128-41-5

October 2018

Produced in the United States of America

Champagne Book Group

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Albany OR 97321

USA

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To Roby, who would’ve found it funny if that night she’d decided to live.

Dear Reader:

No dragon has been harmed during the making of this book. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same thing about adverbs and exclamation points. Very, really, and suddenly! a part of me will always miss you.

One

Nathair hadn’t planned to end his last day at Sir Lancelot’s Academy for Knights getting caught cheating on his final examination. Especially since the cheating had been a misunderstanding. The incriminating piece of parchment was still in his best friend’s extended hand. General Baldwin loomed over Nathair in his emerald uniform, one eyebrow arched in disappointment.

Sir, I wasn’t— Nathair started, standing at his desk.

Don’t even try, Locksbay. General Baldwin held up a hand to silence him. The situation is clear enough. I’ve caught your friend Tristan red-handed passing you that piece of paper with the correct Numeracy answers. Cheating is not only against the academy rules, but the Knights’ Honor Code as well.

Ouch. That hurts. Nathair wasn’t a cheater. He was an average student maybe, but never a cheater. He bit down the remark and ignored his fellow cadets whispering and giggling behind his back. They leaned forward on their wooden desks, heads turning from him to the general like in a game of stool-ball. Many cadets would enjoy seeing the only russet-skinned boy at the academy being publicly scolded.

Tristan of Greystone stood and bowed to the general. His blond hair swished about his shoulders. General Baldwin, it’s my fault. It was my idea to help Nathair. I knew he needed help with Numeracy, and I thought to pass him the answers. He didn’t ask me anything.

That was true, and swyve. Tristan excelled at many things—he was the academy’s top cadet—but persuading people was his most honed skill. His confident tone, reassuring smile, and bright blue eyes could soothe the most inveterate criminal into turning himself in.

General Baldwin waved a dismissive hand. You can sit down, Greystone, and keep going with your examination, but I’ll take fifty points off your final score for breaking the rules.

Tristan did as told, casting an apologetic glance at Nathair.

General Baldwin took Nathair’s test and scanned it. Let’s see why you wanted Greystone’s intervention.

When his gray eyebrows shot up, Nathair smelled trouble. He didn’t need the mind-reading power of the mind-wrens to guess what the general was thinking. The bell echoed in the high-vaulted ceiling of the Training Hall, and Nathair exhaled. Chairs scraped back against the wooden floor.

Now he was done for.

Locksbay, General Baldwin’s voice sounded stern, …follow me to my office.

Of course, sir. He collected his quill, parchments, and ink bottle and stuffed them in his bag.

Sorry, Tristan whispered. I’ll wait for you here.

With heavy feet, Nathair followed the man who might expel him. He swallowed hard, thinking about his mentor. What would Ewhen say when he heard about this? Nathair shuffled behind the general along the Champions’ Corridor lined with famous knights’ suits of armor. They headed to the eastern tower of the castle toward the mechanical winch.

Before entering the narrow cabin that would lift him up to the third floor, Nathair hesitated. Traveling suspended by an iron cable wasn’t his idea of a safe trip. In comparison, the clockwork stairs, despite the grinding noise of the steps winding up, seemed safer. Nathair stepped inside the cabin and shoved his hands in his blue cloak pockets, while the winch coiled up with a grinding of metal against stone. From a gap between two metal plates, he caught a glimpse of rotating wheels and pumping pistons.

Once at the landing, Nathair trudged toward General Baldwin’s office. The oak door closed behind them with a thud. The room had four floor-to-ceiling windows, a high-vaulted ceiling, and a fireplace that resembled a dragon’s open jaw. Despite the size of the room, Nathair’s chest constricted. He breathed in the familiar smell. The musty scent of old parchments mingled with that of the armchairs’ worn leather.

Sit. General Baldwin sat on his throne-like chair.

Nathair groaned and dropped down onto one of the stuffed chairs. No chance this would be quick.

General Baldwin scanned Nathair’s test, his eyes darting up and down. You have twenty-five points. It’s not good enough, but it’s not an excuse to cheat either.

He didn’t reply. He’d rather take the blame than involve Tristan. Besides, telling the truth wouldn’t change his score.

General Baldwin drummed his fingers on the desk. What happened? You were a good student. Not the finest, but decent. This, he gestured at the paper, is not what I’d have expected from you, and I’m not talking about today’s examination. He opened a drawer and pulled out a leather folder fat with parchments. He unfastened the string and spread them out.

Nathair gripped the armrests.

I had a look at your tests and assignments, and I’m very disappointed. General Baldwin flipped through the stack of papers. In your last Wildlife and Wild-flora test you scored an Insufficient, same thing with Music and Courteous Conversation.

He shook his head. A sickening lump crawled into his stomach. Please, anything but Poetry.

For example, Poetry. As General Baldwin read, his frown deepened. Dame Puddifoot wrote only one word about your poetic skills: hopeless. What is your obsession with cats? Cats are all over your poems. You must love them.

Hardly. Cat rhymed with everything: fat, hat, sat, bat, mat—the possibilities were endless.

And I see no extracurricular skills or activities. He stared at Nathair.

He wiped his hands on the trousers of his uniform and pulled back a curled strand of his chestnut hair. Call it a hunch but breaking into Lady Guinevere’s Damsels Academy using nothing but two knives probably wasn’t an extracurricular skill the general would be interested in, but then someone had to release those greasy pigs into Lady Guinevere’s dormitory. Last week, the ladies had filled the cadets’ quivers with honey. It was only sensible that the cadets returned the favor, and Tristan needed help to sneak into the rooms of his many girlfriends.

Well? General Baldwin prompted.

I don’t have much time for extra activities, sir.

Anyway, I might agree that Music and Poetry aren’t essential for a knight, but an Unsatisfactory in Swordsmanship and Defensive Strategy is inexcusable. You’ve excelled in them until recently. Ewhen’s always praised your fighting skills and resilience. What’s going on with you?

He loosened his jacket’s collar. I…my family had problems this winter.

What problems?

My sister got the water-elf disease.

General Baldwin’s jaw dropped. Was it serious?

Her lungs were affected. Nathair fussed with his cloak. The healer’s fee was exorbitant, and my mother couldn’t hire a worker for the harvest. I had to help her.

Not that his mother had asked for his help. She wanted Nathair to focus on his studies. In fact, they’d had a furious fight. Still, he’d worked tirelessly on the field. The cuts and bruises covering his hands didn’t come from combat practice. The hours spent plowing and tilling had taken their toll.

Did your mother ask for a loan? General Baldwin asked.

She did. Nathair’s eyes narrowed. They wanted forty percent interest.

General Baldwin tilted his head. What? That’s robbery. Your mother is being treated like a witch. The reason?

They said that… Anger and shame swept through Nathair. He squirmed on the chair as if he were sitting on hot coals. At least he would be eighteen soon and the official owner of their land. They don’t trust a russet-skinned woman of the Snake clan, and she was lucky that Ewhen is our landowner. Otherwise, the Wizarding Council would’ve already confiscated our land. Unless we pay the debt in a month, they’ll take our farm, and my mother’s permit to stay in New Camelot will be revoked.

If his mother were expelled from the city, he’d follow her into the Snake Mountains where her people lived. New Camelot was his home. He’d been born here. All he knew about the Snake people was that they were dark-skinned and worshiped a half-woman, half-snake goddess. He didn’t even speak their tongue.

I’m not surprised. The war against the Snake people has gone on for too long—like the war against the Saxons and the Goths, and now we’re on the edge of a war with the Romans. General Baldwin rose and paced. Did you tell the moneylenders about your father and how your mother is a hardworking, law-abiding citizen? I guess they don’t care. He stopped pacing. Why didn’t you tell me any of this? I might’ve helped.

Nathair scuffed his boots on the marble floor. I thought I could handle it.

Pride is a knight’s trait, but you should’ve told me. Now I can’t do anything. Tomorrow, when the High Wizard assigns you your quest, you’ll be on your own. Besides, I have to inform him of your attempt at cheating, which means your quest will be harder. After the last Wizarding Council’s decree, I’m afraid that… He fell silent and waved a hand. Never mind. You’ll know soon enough.

Even if I fail tomorrow, I can try next year, right? He wouldn’t graduate with Tristan, but next year he’d study hard, and his final examination would be better.

General Baldwin paled. Er…well, that’s the rule…for now. He turned to the mantelpiece and straightened the shield of the order of the Swan. Always brave, always faithful, always a knight, the motto read.

Those ancient words would be written on Nathair’s shield one day, if he were ever accepted into the order.

General Baldwin faced Nathair, his expression grave. I know how badly you want to be a Swan. His chest puffed. The order of the Swan has the best warriors of the kingdom. I’ve been a Swan knight since your age and fought with them for more than thirty years, so I understand your feelings. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid or reckless tomorrow. When the High Wizard assigns you a quest, I want you to think carefully before accepting it.

Nathair rubbed the back of his neck, struggling to follow the conversation. He could have a second chance if he failed the quest, but not if he turned it down. Without even trying it, he could never apply to the Swans and could never be a knight. I’ll do my best, sir.

Off you go. General Baldwin opened the door. Tomorrow is an important day for you. Sleep well and get ready.

~ * ~

On his way back to the Training Hall, Nathair stuck his head out a window. The sundial in the courtyard read nearly a quarter to three. He winced. The last public wagon left at half past two. Now the only way home was to fly. The day went from bad to worse quicker than he could say Excalibur.

The castle’s thick stone walls muffled the noise from the bustling streets of New Camelot. He arrived at the Training Hall and found Tristan leaning against a hawking machine that sold cups of mead—or was supposed to. The thing had stolen more cadets’ crowns than a band of thieves. Mechanical arts weren’t infallible.

Did you miss the wagon to wait for me? Nathair asked.

Somebody had to keep you company. Tristan strapped his leather bag across his shoulder. Let’s go to the rooftop.

They climbed one flight of stairs after another. In the late afternoon, the clockwork stairs were shut down, but Nathair didn’t mind the exercise. It helped shake off the stress.

What did General Baldwin say? Tristan asked.

Nothing cheerful, and he blabbered something about not being stupid tomorrow.

Tristan chuckled. Beat a dead dragon.

He punched Tristan’s shoulder. We can’t all be perfect geniuses like you.

They scaled the narrow ladder to the flat rooftop and emerged below the rusted, half-broken shelter. Years ago, it had resembled a cozy roof with terracotta shingles, supported by marble columns—now it leaned on one side, and a shabby top covered mismatched pillars.

Careful not to step on smashed glass, they headed for the stone benches. A dozen cadets hung around, chatting and laughing. A couple of them had puffy red eyes. Others sported grins of satisfaction. Many cadets waved warmly at Nathair and Tristan, but others cast sideways glances at them. A tall, red-haired boy gritted his teeth at Tristan.

He elbowed Tristan. Why is Raymond staring at you like he wants to rip your throat open?

Tristan lifted a shoulder. Something about his older sister…and his younger one, and his former girlfriend, and…

That’s enough.

But that is going to change. Tristan’s brow furrowed. After the quest, everything is going to change.

Nathair arched an eyebrow. Well, yes, everything would change after they both became knights. As for Tristan’s swyve-around lifestyle, that was another matter.

Nathair sat on a sun-warmed bench between two fire-extinguishing charms—boxes no bigger than his hand, hanging up on the balustrade. He twitched his nose. The stark contrast between the classrooms and the rooftop was jarring. The rest of the castle was scrubbed to star-brightness and smelled of lemon polish and beeswax. It seemed as if a hurricane, an earthquake, and a fire had destroyed the rooftop. Deep ruts scarred the floor, a formerly white balustrade was charred and stank of smoke, and the shelter had been knocked down and rebuilt countless times. A worn sign hung with the broken words St nd clear of the land ng area like the toothless smile of a child.

Tomorrow will be a sheer nightmare. Nathair kicked a piece of glass. …and Ewhen has been mysterious for the past few days. He avoided my questions about the quest. Something’s up. What did Sir Bohemond tell you?

My mentor has never been talkative, but I can tell he’s nervous. Well, more than usual.

Nathair toyed with the badge of the Iron Maidens, his favorite jousting team, on his satchel. How much time will I have with twenty-five points?

Tristan scrunched his face. Less than ten minutes.

Swyve! Not enough time to destroy twenty dummy Daemons.

Why not? You can destroy a dummy in a second. The dummy Daemons might be clockwork knights like the real ones, but they aren’t as strong or fast. Besides, we’ve practiced for ages.

Not recently, though. In the past few weeks, my only training has been plowing and tilling, and—

So, Locksbay, a voice bellowed from his right. General Baldwin caught you cheating.

Nathair groaned. The last cadet he wanted to talk with was Cynan of Bremen and his minions. Cynan shook his head in disapproval. His dark hair, neatly combed into a ponytail that reached his broad shoulders, showed his tense neck muscles.

Did he expel you? Or did he take pity on you for being such a worthless Snake?

The half dozen cadets behind him sniggered.

Nathair’s muscled jaw twitched. Keep talking, Cynan. One day you might say something worth hearing.

Cynan’s lips tightened, and his dark eyes flashed. Show some respect, Snake. Don’t you know who my father is?

Do you? That was too easy.

He dropped his bag onto the floor. A couple of his minions leaped forward, but he stopped them by lifting a hand.

Nathair was oh so ready to vent some energy using his fists against Cynan’s nose. He sprang to his feet, let his satchel fall, and brought his arms in a fighting stance.

Enough! Tristan sandwiched himself between Nathair and Cynan and stretched out his arms. Do you both want to be expelled the day before the quest?

Cynan didn’t move, but his shoulders relaxed. He stepped backward. Aren’t you tired of this filthy Snake? You’re wasting your time with him, Tris. He shoved Tristan’s hand and strolled away.

Idiot, Tristan muttered.

Nothing new to me. Nathair scooped up his bag. His older brother was killed by the Snakes. I can’t expect sympathy from him.

I wonder which order would take someone short-tempered like him.

He’s the queen’s nephew. He’ll find something. Nathair tilted his head to the sky. And you? To which order will you apply? The Swan and what else?

Crimson blossomed on Tristan’s cheeks. Oh, well, actually, I-I won’t apply to any order.

You must be joking. He peered at his best friend’s stern face. Holy swyve! Tristan is serious.

The red in Tristan’s face drained to a pasty chalk, but his blue eyes stayed firmly on Nathair. I’ve been pre-selected. The Swans sent me a letter, asking me to join as soon as I graduate.

Nathair stifled a retort. Applying to the Swans together was Nathair and Tristan’s pact since they were children. Tristan was already, although unofficially, a Swan. Why didn’t you tell me?

With what happened to your family, and you busy every day in the field, I never could find the right moment to talk about it.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. I’m happy for you. No one deserves it more than you, but you should’ve told me all the same.

Sorry. Tristan’s gaze shifted.

Congratulations. You’re what, the fifty-first Swan in your family? Nathair patted Tristan’s shoulder.

Something like that. He gave a shrug, as if it didn’t matter.

A roar worthy of an exploding volcano shook the air. A glimmer of orange reflected from the dragon’s scales. It gave the illusion a fireball the size of a house was flying toward Nathair and Tristan. The dragon’s massive body undulated as it adjusted its trajectory to land on the rooftop. Its talons remained tucked close to its body though, the wings spread in flight mode.

Nathair squinted. The bus is coming…and it’s not slowing down. He sprinted to the shelter.

Tristan followed him. Damn dragon.

Shouts and the stomping of boots resounded. The cadets fled out of the way, their cloaks trailing behind them like banners.

The dragon loomed over the rooftop, blocking out the sunlight. Its wings flapped wildly, creating vortexes of air, and its razor-sharp claws screeched against the slates. Nathair stumbled when twenty tons of dragon meat hit the floor.

The dragon skidded forward. Its claws nailed the stone tiles until it stopped in front of the shelter. The landing claimed the S from the writing on the rooftop. The scorching, fishy dragon’s breath slapped his face, and he grimaced.

The spikes on the top of dragon’s head grew into a ten-foot crest, enhancing the long scar on the neck. Its elliptical pupils narrowed. Sharp fangs flashed when the dragon’s mouth curled into a snarl. It growled as if daring anyone to complain about its landing technique.

The seats secured on the dragon’s giant saddle swayed in rhythm with the beast’s rumbling snort.

Nathair huffed. That was close.

I’m not going to miss flying home on a dragon bus. Tristan combed his tornado-tousled hair.

Nathair agreed. Another reason to pass the quest tomorrow. He adjusted his cloak when something red flashed. Watch out!

The dragon turned on itself. A tail as big as a turret flogged the air, swishing above the cadets. Nathair and Tristan plunged to the ground and covered their heads with their satchels. Shingles from the shelter’s roof rained down. A loud bang and a shake of the ground signaled that the draconic maneuver was finished.

With a groan, Nathair stood and brushed debris off his hair and clothes.

Tristan patted his shoulders. Come on, before the best seats are taken. I don’t want to fly close to the tail again. The dung stench makes me sick.

The cadets formed a line in front of the ladder set on the dragon’s side. Shoving cadets aside, Cynan made his way to the head of the queue and ignored the others’ protests. He tripped on a satchel and smashed against the dragon’s belly.

Tristan pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. Bet the dragon isn’t going to be happy with Cynan. Get ready.

Nathair closed his eyes, covered his ears, and held his breath to avoid inhaling another waft of Eau de Dragon.

The dragon growled and opened its mouth. A fireball exploded and grazed Cynan’s shoulder. He screamed, clamped a hand on his shoulder, then knelt.

Nathair smirked. He grabbed the closest fire-extinguishing charm and fully employed it. A thick layer of snow and ice spurted from it and covered Cynan.

Good thing that magic, present only in the blood of a few lucky people, could be bottled in ready-to-use charms.

Nathair brushed a few white flakes from his jacket. No need to thank me.

Cynan grunted. His blue lips stretched into a grimace. Frost covered his eyebrows. He struggled to his feet and shivered like a newborn in the cold, his band of cronies fussing around him.

In ten minutes, you’ll be fine. Nathair patted Cynan’s icy shoulder and joined the queue.

Tristan stared wide-eyed at him. That was amazing.

He gave him a shove. Go to the dragon, or we’ll be here all evening.

Tristan bowed to the dragon. Good afternoon, sir. Did you have a nice day? It’s a pleasure to see you perfectly recovered after the incident with that clumsy brown feathery-dragon. I heard it hurt you pretty badly, but now your scales shine as if nothing ever happened. You must be an exceptionally strong dragon for healing so quickly.

Of course, he had scored ‘Excellent’ in Courteous Conversation.

The dragon wagged its tail and made a sound halfway between a purr and a snort. Its vertical pupils dilated and the wings eased down.

How in blazes do you do that? Nathair moved forward while the cadets ascended the ladder.

Bohemond says dragons can’t understand us, but I think he’s wrong. Although, I believe the tone of voice is important. You have to get it just right.

Nathair and Tristan climbed the ladder and slouched onto a pair of seats above the dragon’s shoulder blades. Funny, this close the scales didn’t look red, but transparent like glass, showing thick burgundy veins underneath.

Nathair wiped his sweaty hands on his pant legs. If he focused on the pattern of the veins, he might forget about his airsickness. What if he got stuck for another year at Sir Lancelot’s, taking the dragon bus without Tristan? It wouldn’t be the same. He’d promised General Baldwin he wouldn’t do anything stupid tomorrow, but he wasn’t sure he could keep his promise if it meant not making it into the Swans for another year.

Two

Nathair shoved his way through the throng. Wizards, cadets with their families, and knights packed Sir Lancelot Academy’s Great Hall, waiting for the quest ceremony to start. Their chatter echoed from the high-vaulted ceiling.

Excuse me, sir. He brushed past a dark-uniformed Swan.

Good luck, cadet. The Swan clapped Nathair’s shoulder.

Thank you, sir.

Will you apply to the Swans? The knight stroked his thick beard.

Of course, sir. Nathair stopped on the floor mosaic, right over King Arthur holding Excalibur, while slaying the evil Morrigans. It’s my first choice.

First and only. What remained were the Winged Star Knights, but flying on dragons was out of the question, then there was the Order of the Fox, but he didn’t care about spying and uncovering conspiracies. The last one was the Order of the Blue Sails, but spending days surrounded by nothing but sea wasn’t a great idea. Better to have solid ground, a strong horse, and rocky paths.

A woman patted the Swan’s arm. Thank you for your service, young man.

The Swan bowed. Just doing my duty, ma’am.

Nathair’s chest swelled. Would people thank him once he became a Swan?

A group of wizards, in their long black robes, strode in. The woman twitched her nose and muttered something Nathair didn’t catch. She threw sideways glances at the wizards, who each stuck their chins out.

Keep an eye on your uniform. The Swan waved at Nathair and disappeared into the crowd.

Swyve! He adjusted his leather jacket. The fabric stretched tightly on the shoulders, and he couldn’t fully button the waistcoat. His muscles had grown and hardened in the past months.

Where were his mother and sister? He’d ridden to the academy, while they’d followed him on the cart. They should arrive any minute. All his gear was in place, including his daggers, and his sword, but where was his—?

Here’s your stupid cloak. His sister, Nineveh, strolled up to him, holding it. Her limp was hardly noticeable. You left it on your mare’s saddle. Luckily, I spotted it. Her glossy dark hair swished about her waist, while she flexed up on her toes to fasten the cloak around his shoulders. She giggled at the half-buttoned waistcoat. Your uniform is squeezing you out.

His eyebrows shot up. That’s because somebody promised to teach me how to mend the buttons of my waistcoat, but preferred to go to the lake with her girlfriends instead.

I needed fresh air, and the day was too beautiful to stay home. Nineveh pinched his arm. Nervous?

His stomach churned. He wiped sweat from his hands. Not really. His gaze swept the crowd.

In a quiet corner behind a pillar, Tristan talked with a pretty blonde girl in the Lady Guinevere’s crimson uniform. Or rather, he talked, and she cried, a pink handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

Nathair scoffed. Another brokenhearted girl joined Tristan’s fan club. The girl narrowed her wet eyes, slapped him on the cheek, and marched out of the hall.

Ouch. Nathair scrunched his nose. It was a good slap. Had to be painful. Tristan’s persuasive voice didn’t always work. He massaged his cheek and approached. He flashed a crooked smile and finger-combed his hair when Nineveh waved at him.

She sat on a wooden bench and stretched her stiff leg, keeping it hidden under her skirt. Good morning, Tristan.

Tristan cleared his throat. Morning.

Nathair frowned. Was Nineveh blushing? Maybe it was exhaustion, although, it was nice to see some color back in her porcelain white skin. She’d taken after their father, thank goodness. Even her eyes were blue and not golden like Nathair’s. No one would guess she was half-Snake.

She tilted her head. Are you all right? Your face looks sore.

A small incident. He massaged his jaw. I was wondering if after the quest we can have dinner together? I have three tickets for the next Iron Maidens’ match against the Brazen Bulls.

My mother has organized something, Nathair replied.

Tristan’s shoulders sagged. Oh, I see. What about tomorrow? A blonde