The Legacy of Avalon: The Boy, the Elder and the Sword - PREVIEW

Prologue

The Legacy of Avalon: The Boy, the Elder and the Sword

Author: Luiz Fabrício de Oliveira Mendes ("Goldfield")

Translated to English by: Renan Piccolo Colombini

Revised by: Dominique Scott

Cover Art: Camila Araújo

Prologue

Charcoal skies shrouded nearly every single beam of sunlight, clouds rushing tirelessly through the firmament, as though far too horrified to contemplate the scenario sketched on Earth. Upon the land, dusky mist wafted by – brumes which hastily hid what had taken place, gathering into a vaporous blanket.

Truth be told, though, if the mist was actually a blanket, it would soon be smeared in red...

The Plains of Camlann were fraught with corpses. There, thousands of men had fallen, their metal armor and shields proven worthless. Horses could also be found lying motionless; the poor animals had lost their lives amidst the vicious bloodshed wrought by their riders. In the midst of broken swords and shattered spears, warriors at the edge of their lives still struggled and waved their arms or raised their heads to discover which side had been victorious. Despite it all, their combat spirit was to prevail. The symbols proudly bared on their shields and pennons, as custom would have it, represented the armies for which they fought. In this case, some bore the silhouette of a ferocious red dragon on a white background, while others displayed a golden balance over a background of crimson.

It was upon an oval shield bearing the latter emblem that the iron-coated foot of the knight, roaming through this realm of desolation, landed that very moment. A soft thump echoed from the action, reflecting the steady march of a full army throughout the bleak prevailing silence. At the mere sight of the symbol, the soldier spat in disgust. The drawing somehow managed to be far more repugnant than the massacre – which was already luring in some early ravens, patiently spiraling a few feet above the dreadful scene, preparing to feast. It was the blazon of the Usurper, the traitor responsible for all this carnage. The knight begged both the ancient Celtic gods as well as the new Roman's god that the bastard had met his castigation. It wasn't The Usurper's corpse he was looking for at that moment, though. Among the possible survivors – his friends, the Sworn Knights of the Round Table – Bedivere was on a quest for his king.

The knights of Camelot had arrived united and in brisk formation at Camlann. Yet, since times most ancient, it was known to be tough keeping a keen eye and sharp mind during the heat of the battle's stirring turmoil. Bedivere had sprung against his foes, standing shoulder to shoulder with Percival and Bors, The Younger. Still, he had lost sight of them once he was surrounded by the Usurper's men. He was forced to slay his way through, watching warriors from both sides falling. His armor was stained in blood, his body was sore, and a considerably deep slash spread in the length of his arm. In spite of that, such a wound didn't throb as painfully as the mournful revelation that had been bestowed upon him. He was likely one of the only few surviving Knights of the Round Table. And although he chose not to set his primordial goal as finding his comrades whose lives had been equally spared, he learned he didn't fancy stumbling upon their corpses either. If there was a word that forced him to keep on trudging through this terrifying landscape, it was merely this one...

"Arthur!"

He cried out for his king in hopes of receiving another yelled cry, or the wave of a hand at least. His penury-ridden voice echoed long and forlorn through the immensity of the plains, reaching only a handful of half-dead men and the crushed ghosts of once-warriors. Nevertheless, he carried on. Bedivere may not have been among the knights when, in years of yore, they went through countless challenges and affairs of honor to find the Holy Grail – sacred artifact of great importance – but that wouldn't lead him to forfeit his search. He staggered onward, stomping on shields, helms, and breastplates. Moments passed amid the brumes, and the brave knight's empty findings made grow in him something far from his own will: despair. His walk became a heavy stride and twice he barely escaped from smashing headlong into the ground after wrangling his feet in ruined banners. He prayed once more to the gods, beseeching that the great King Arthur had been withstood from the gruesome shadow of death...