The Memory Key
This novella is included with Timeless Light, Knight Traveler Part 3
The Knight Traveler series continues with another short, action-packed tale:
King Arthur sent Sir Bors, a knight of the Round Table, to assist Merlin in protecting several magical objects from a timeless enemy in the wizard’s past. But when Sir Bors and his hawk ride for Avalon with a key bearing extraordinary powers, they’re attacked by creatures determined to kill them and steal the key for an ageless evil sorceress.
Now King Arthur, the Lady of the Lake, and Sir Bors must choose which battles to fight now and which to leave for the future…
For the full list of books in this series visit the Knight Traveler series page!
~REVIEWS~
“With strong characters and uniquely fascinating story line…Regan’s writing style brings these mythical characters to life and breaths adventure into each word and phrase!” 5 stars -jwreinhold, amazon review
“I sped through this novella and am now impatiently awaiting the next book! Loved it!” 4 stars -cjr, amazon review
~ENJOY AN EXCERPT~
One
Sir Bors rode for Avalon at a breakneck speed. He leaned low over the neck of his gelding, the long mane whipping at his cheek and chin. Overhead, his hawk sliced through the flat blue sky while the horse’s hooves pounded the earth.
One thing was certain, a life pledged to uphold the ideals of King Arthur and protect king and kingdom was never dull.
It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since he’d joined his cousin Lancelot and brother Lionel as a Knight of the Round Table. He’d started wars, carried peace treaties, and quested to faraway lands on behalf of his king. Bors considered every drop of blood and sweat, every tear shed in joy and sorrow, each adventure and wild risk as an investment for generations to come.
According to Arthur and Merlin, success on this particular errand could ensure those generations would live in relative peace. Failure would subject humanity to a horrible, vengeful tyrant.
Behind him, Bors felt the darkness gaining, the grasping tethers of evil racing forward, seeking a route to the item he protected. Despite the blistering pace, he’d lost the day’s head start Merlin had created for him to carry an enchanted key to the ultimate safety of Avalon.
At Arthur’s request, Bors had been sent to accompany Merlin on a series of errands, offering protection for the wizard as well as a training opportunity for the knight. For months Bors had endured Merlin’s changeable moods and cryptic musings, concerned the wizard was losing his faculties prematurely. As a man moderately gifted with foresight, Bors knew magic took a toll on the magician and the more powerful the magic, the higher the price.
The scents changed, forest giving way to grassy meadows as the landscape blurred around them. Thanks to the crotchety advice from Merlin, Bors had developed greater control over his gift in waking or sleeping. Now, desperate, he narrowed his vision until only the path to Avalon was clear. No diversions or distractions could be allowed, per Merlin’s orders.
Not that Bors suffered from any such lack of focus.
Merlin had explained that the key Bors carried on a chain under his tunic could change a man’s mind, change the very fabric of a man’s soul, if allowed. Outrageous as the claim was, Bors believed him. More, he knew there were additional mystical details Merlin had not shared, primarily the name or nature of the evil seeking the key. Why bother relocating the key unless someone terrible had found it?
The bridle jangled, putting an ache in his ears. His armor felt heavier with each ground-eating stride of the gelding. Jaw clenched against the bleak throbbing in his bones, he pressed on.
He assumed the very least of what Merlin had left unsaid was that the key, in the wrong hands, could become twisted and warped, a tool of destruction. Nearly anything a man could name had the potential to be used for good or ill. Knowing it – worse, sensing it – he rode as if the fate of their King, of Camelot, of Avalon, and of all the lives dependent on the current peace were in jeopardy.
Feeling the winded gelding tire, Bors laid his hand on the sleek, strong muscles of the horse’s neck. He murmured words of restoration and encouragement. A soft golden light seeped from his open hand into the horse’s flesh. With a toss of his head, the gelding powered on. They must make Avalon by nightfall or be overrun by the demon chasing them. Bors knew there would be no hiding.
Last night had been too close, the temptation to embrace the key and explore the beckoning power almost irresistible. This enchantment was not for him. Ruthlessly, Bors fought back the fears creeping at the edges of his mind, resolute that the dread would have no more sway or substance than the fog shrouding the forest floor before dawn.
Through his visionary gift, Bors had seen his death and accepted that he would willingly meet his maker at the appointed time in a land far from Camelot. Though Merlin had counted on Bors’ unique awareness and ability to resist the temptation of the key, he’d issued the warning nonetheless. On his trek, Bors discovered awareness was a weak shield against such a powerful object.
An eerie, wild cry split the air and the gelding tripped, tumbling forward as if he’d taken a spear to the chest. Bors leapt clear and scrambled to the jerking body of his fallen mount. He placed his hands over the once mighty beast, intending to soothe and comfort, lurching back as the horse withered into a pile of ash.
With a prayer, he cast the light as Merlin had taught him and knew immediately the protective net would not hold off the relentless darkness for long.
From the safety of the light, Bors signaled his hawk and the bird wheeled in the air, diving toward his outstretched arm. “You must prevail,” he told her.
The hawk tilted her head, eyeing the ashes blowing away in small clouds of gray.
“Easy. Let us all be heroes today, my friend.”
Bors pulled the key from the chain around his neck and swiftly bound it in a fold of cloth. “To Avalon,” he said. “Deliver this to the Lady of the Lake and stay with her.” He tied the bundle to the hawk’s foot. She shook her foot as if testing the weight. “This is not our day. I will join you soon.”
Another shriek rent the air. The demons were closing in. “Go!” Bors watched her take flight, each sweep of the broad wings pulling the hawk higher into the sky, carrying the key to safety.
Drawing his sword, Bors crouched low, eyeing the enemy through the dwindling shelter of the light.
The creatures chasing the key writhed as one being. The tactic had fooled him upon his first skirmish with them. Blacker than a moonless night with glistening, empty eyes that glowed red when they attacked, they drew the eye to the center mass. When the strike came, the creature fractured, skittering away like spiders until they surrounded the victim. They moved with terrible swiftness and the last joint of the front legs could change into a vicious whip, extending their reach.
How they’d killed the gelding at a gallop, Bors didn’t want to know. He’d had enough of a challenge surviving the last encounter. If the beasts were gaining strength and skill… well, it was best not to think on an enemy’s virtues when going into battle.
As the protective light faded, Bors surged toward the wicked creatures. Before the mass could split, he veered to the side and, rolling, sliced away at the legs of the outermost beast. The severed appendages flailed before they were absorbed by the earth, a scorching trail marking the transition.
The pained howl was followed by a chorus of furious growls, the combination rattling his eardrums and coursing chills over his skin. The wounded creature was folded into the mass as more of the whip-like joints lashed out.
Bors neatly dodged and evaded the strikes, unwilling to endure another injury. He’d learned the hard way that the touch of this beast left anything from a hard bruise to a deep, festering wound only Merlin’s salve and incantations could cure.
Bors blocked with his sword and vaulted over the threat, circling in closer to the cold black center of the nearest beast. The eyes lit, the beast reared, and Bors cleaved the thing in two when it crashed over him. Now the creatures splintered from one to many, surrounding him. His familiarity with the ploy negated their advantage. He’d had time to assess and review his previous encounters with this beast, time to develop a new strategy. He took out another and maneuvered so the three remaining were in front of him, neatly blocking the path to Avalon and the key.
The discordant chatter between the beasts set his teeth on edge. Whatever dark power conjured and controlled these things had proven clever. Bors pushed all else from his mind and fixated on the fiery-red eyes, searching for the opening necessary to prevail.
Rhythmic hoof-beats pounded the earth at his back and Bors fought harder to dispatch the enemy, distantly curious if he’d misinterpreted the vision of his death in a faraway land. Severing another whip-leg before it could strike, Bors sent the beast curling in on itself once more to regroup.
He whirled around to face the new threat, sword high at the ready and lowered the weapon immediately. Rather than a new enemy, Camelot’s greatest champion and king had arrived. He praised the good fortune that allowed Arthur himself to ride to his aid.
“Your Highness,” Bors bowed.
“The formalities will wait, my friend, we must finish this lot.”
Arthur drew Excalibur, the magic blade glowing, eager for battle.
“Yes, sire. Don’t let the whips catch you,” he advised as they waded into the seething mass. Together they made short work of the creatures until only a web of scorched earth remained.
Arthur turned a slow circle, nudging at one black mark after another, as Excalibur’s light faded. “Is that the end of them?”
“Once dispatched, they do not rise again,” Bors replied, wiping the worst of the battle from his sword with a bundle of green grass. The grass withered with a pungent odor. “Unless they are summoned.”
Arthur glanced around the meadow. “I don’t suppose you know who summons them?”
“Merlin gave me no clear answer.” Bors gazed up at the clear sky, hopeful his hawk had reached Avalon. “We need to purify the swords.” He removed a small bottle from the pouch at his belt. Opening it he dripped the potion Merlin created over his sword and Excalibur as well. “How did you know to be here today, sire?”
“Merlin informed me when you set out,” Arthur replied. “I’ve been traipsing on the outskirts of Avalon, waiting for your arrival. When I saw the hawk dive into the mists and no sign of you, I thought you might need assistance.”
“She made it?” Bors breathed a sigh of relief. “I am grateful for your help.” Bors retrieved the saddle and bridle where they’d fallen after the gelding’s demise.
“Dare I ask what happened to your mount?” Arthur whistled and his horse came charging out from a copse of trees.
“Those dreadful creatures managed a new tactic,” Bors said. “I knew they were close, right on our heels. Then the gelding went down as if lanced in the chest. He turned to ash even as I tried to soothe him.”
Arthur scowled in the direction from which Bors had come, as if he could see who or what had called forth the wretched creatures.
“We should find better shelter before nightfall.” Bors hefted the saddle in his arms. Though the key was presumably safe, he didn’t want to risk his king’s life unnecessarily. “They are stronger and wilier at night.”
With only one horse, the men walked from the singed meadow. Arthur clapped his knight on the shoulder. “No worries, my friend. We will shelter behind the veil of Avalon tonight.”
He hoped the king was right.
“Tell me,” Arthur said, breaking the companionable silence, “how often have you met those creatures?”
“This was the third fight, sire. It has watched me at other times and withheld attack.” He rubbed at his chest, easing the faint prickling that remained from when the key had rested against his skin.
Arthur slanted him a long look. “Does it stir anything inside you?”
“An affinity?” Bors asked, dismayed. He did not want Arthur worrying that he’d been turned from his noble vows.
“No, never that, my friend.”
With every step closer to the hidden isle of Avalon, Bors felt the subtle current of power in the air, an ancient warmth under his feet. Suddenly, he grasped the meaning behind Arthur’s question. “You’re wondering if the creatures reek of the old magics.”
“Yes,” Arthur admitted, his mouth set in a grim line.
“There is something there,” Bors admitted. “But it is convoluted and blended with an unfamiliar power.”
“Unfamiliar is precisely what concerns me,” Arthur muttered.