Arthurian Cultivation

I collapsed to the ground, a boneless husk of a man. Ulfast was dead. His life ended under Bors’ hammer. We'd won.

The Death glamour was overwhelming, but for once I didn't need to fight it. I sated my desire to feast by sipping upon on the pool of glamour gathered in the well of my lute. I was careful to pull on that only. The glamour of the Iron ranks was so thick, it was almost liquid. Yet it was no more tempting than the glamour I'd gathered. That may in part be that even sanitized, I wanted no part of Ulfast within me.

“Did you really just irritate someone a rank above you into all but killing himself?” Bors was breathing heavily, a hand resting on his knee looking down at my reclined form. He wore a grin on his face.

“While I am a supreme talent in this case, a receptive audience made it all the easier.” I huffed, as Bors gave me a hand up. My legs wobbled like a freshly born deer.

“Did the song get in his head? I kind of felt it, it was a merry tune, not something that I’d expect to cause someone to froth at the mouth.” Said Bors.

“No, that's all him. Ulfast is, was, notoriously thin-skinned, even among the Divine Cultivators. Besides, I knew he’d been jilted at the altar. Seems the fear of their god was less than their fear of a life with Ulfast. Felt like it’d be a sore spot for the bastard.”

“Well damn, bardic cultivation is no joke.” Bors grinned. I smiled but didn’t really feel it.

“Don’t rely on my comedic chops too much, that was rough.” The entire fight had balanced my survival on a knife edge.

That should not have worked. A plan born of desperation and made possible by a confluence of factors. Ulfast had immense power, chunks of earth turned to glass, burning trees, and the lingering taste of copper was evidence of that. However, having only one gift, as I'd experienced with Maeve's pursuit, limited him. Just as my former betrothed had been unable to use Levity to catch me, Blade glamour being terrible for such applications, Ulfast could only blast me with lightning.

Only Lightning. For all that it could instantly kill me, it was something possible to dodge. It'd taken the combined efforts of misdirection from both Gaz and Lance's gifts to keep him from killing me. I’d yelled for help and both Squires had risen to aid me. Gaz’s sound control was exceptional, he had some technique that allowed sound to flow around things, which helped me dodge behind things while not revealing their presence.

Lance, risking her secret to ensure we had a chance of success, used her powers to bounce the sounds around. While she couldn’t hide my original position, she could create echoes making it sound like I was coming from a number of points.

Even with that, it took all my skill with levity to stay out of Ulfast’s grasp, and his attacks destroyed what little cover I could use. My tent was shredded, our seats pulverised, and only jumping behind a particularly sturdy tree had saved me from his last big attack. I still had splinters in my sides from the trees he'd blown up around me.

Even with all of that, the plan only worked because it was Ulfast. The man was famously cruel, his ugly mug an apt container for the rancid soul within. I knew of his problems with his prospective brides because one of those who called themselves my cousins had been considered a potential fourth prospect. She'd asked to be assigned to the northern wastes the same day that news came through.

Still, I felt a savage pleasure in our victory. I would not mourn Ulfast, I can’t imagine anyone else would. It was something to think about that my song hadn’t needed to magically affect his mind, it was just the words themselves that spurred him on. Given my knowledge of the man, keeping in a state of frothing rage had been remarkably easy. There'd been close calls, twice he fiddled with his artefacts and I feared that would be it. Something that would disperse the smoke, or silence my insulting words.

I'd really laid it on thick at those moments. Even coming up with a new technique, based upon Gaz's clever earring. Pressing ash into a dense disk and having it vibrate so I could whisper into his ear had saved me from approaching the man.

“I never want to do that again.” Lance landed with Gring, who in an unusual show of affection rushed to Bors to nuzzle him.

“I am glad I was sick earlier as I am spared that indignity now.” Gaz slumped against the dome. He might've been the safest of us, but without his coordination and aid, we'd have been dead twice over. He looked pale and drawn.

“You all did incredible, I am in your debt. Gawain and I would be dead without your aid.” Bors, took a moment to stand tall and then raised his hand in salute. I saw Gaz straighten up, Knights didn't tend to salute their lessers. I just smiled, pleased to have been able to help. And I will admit I took some pleasure in putting an end to someone as vile as the Inquisitors.

“Speaking of Gawain? Where is the man who airdropped two Inquisitors on us?” Lance looked around.

“He'll be tending Archimedes.” Bors nodded knowingly. That made sense his spirit beast had looked wounded.

We spent a couple of minutes dealing with the destruction of our camp. The dome was still mostly intact. Ulfast had shredded my tent, but not my bed, which I gratefully pushed into my storage ring. The giant mounted heads could not be saved, and I would not mourn their glass-eyed stares.

At the same time, the others stripped the two Inquisitors. I warned them to be careful of a few different items. Their glamour corrupted and grating to my senses. Both had storage rings of inferior quality, the Divine Cultivators never having secured a reliable source. The contents included a lot of sharp barbed implements that made me shudder, there were a number of brews all of which I'd have to assess later.

We all managed to get our breath back. I was confident some kind of backup force wasn't about to wing its way over the horizon. The Inquisitors did so love to show off, they'd never have wasted an audience. We sat on some freshly made stone seats, the other spoiled warped and split by our battle.

Bors who was fussing Gring had told us to leave Gawain to it, so we just settled in gathering our wits about us. Lance was the most awake among us, she burned with passion. Likely elated at using her Moon gift so deftly. Gaz had collected his earrings and sipped upon a brew to calm a headache, manipulating the sound had taxed him to his very limit.

“I'm done, I beg your apologies I had to administer a healing brew.” The voice cut through the night. Crisp and even. The man strode towards us I could feel Gaz rocketed to attention beside me. Not out of fear but because the man oozed Order, with a capital O.

He could be the gem in any Order's ranks, the very picture of a noble Knight. It was the straight back, the armour which despite our harrowing battle and all that likely came before, shone in the flickering light of the smouldering trees. I'd met actual Lords who felt less noble than Gawain.

He strode over to us and then with his cloak billowing took to one knee and clutched his hand over his chest, the traditional sign of fealty to one’s sovereign, right in front of Lance.

“Uh?” Lance voiced the confusion we were all feeling.

“My Lady I beg your forgiveness, please give this humble servant leave to speak.” Gawain's dictation was perfect.

“Gawain, buddy? You doing alright over there?” Bors asked.

“Bors even given our mission, you must show respect to a member--”

“Be quiet Gawain, right now. Say nothing more.” I snapped seeing too late where this was going, just our luck to bump into someone who knew the Quilverns. Lance, who figured it out as I snapped, was looking ill. Her passionate fire from using her gift, turning to a world that burned around her. I winced, the first time using her power before those more powerful than her and she'd been addressed as royalty.

“Do as he says.” Lance hissed at Gawain. Gawain nodded, remaining in position.

“I am very confused.” Bors chimed in, he looked to me seeking an answer. One I did not have. I had a Knight who must know the Quilverns personally, and be very close enough to them to recognize the tiny bursts of Moon Glamour across a raging battlefield. That meant someone loyal, someone close to them. But why were they part of some random group of Knights Errant?

“What do I do Taliesin?” Lance was glaring at Gawain, looking the exact part of an imperious princeling. A shame, with that bearing past me could’ve lied our way out of this, but even ignoring Bors’ senses no falsehood could pass my lips.

“Give me a moment, I’m thinking!” I looked at Bors. Gawain had mentioned their mission. This must be the real reason behind their Errant Knight group. I scanned back through my knowledge of the group, the royals, and everything I’d been told so far. As I listed the names of the group, it hit me. What could’ve been a coincidence, I knew with absolute certainty was nothing of the sort. I felt my face grow slack as I stared at Bors in horror.

I could hear faint laughter. My skin prickled as I felt those distant endless blue eyes pinch with glee.

“ARTY! You called the third prince of Albion, Arty?” My temper was frayed, my soul exhausted. Bors had all but told me to my face. His mate ‘Arty’ who'd stuck him here. The groups cause to fight Divine Cultivators. The famously missing prince Arthur who’d run off because he couldn't stand the spreading influence of those same monsters. How had I not spotted it?

Alright, it was a vanishingly small chance but given how ‘destiny’ clung to me like mud it basically all but assured that the smallest of coincidences would explode. If I could bump into one moon glamour user why not two?

I was at the precipice of finally understanding everything that had happened to me since leaving the lake. Even then I could not however contain my total disbelief that I’d been casually hanging out with a close friend of royalty.

“Well damn.” Bors looked like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, unsure of just how much trouble he was in. Gawain however immediately interceded.

“Please don’t blame him, Prince Arthur of the Noble House of Quilvern, Of lineage to the Radiant Throne of Albion, Warden of the Celestial Gate, Protector of the Seven Sanctuaries, Defender of the Realm’s Mystical Borders, has given us leave to address him informally and to obscure his name.” I saw Lance’s face go white. Gaz had taken just standing to attention, the full title working like a spell to straighten out his spine.

I was officially done. Days of near-death experiences, and being messed around by a Fae goddess meant the looming threat of one of the most powerful families in Euross didn’t even phase me. I was being fucked with, and I was done just playing along. Sure, I believed that Lady had a plan, and it wasn't for me to be dead in the gutter. Equally, I was exhausted by always being one step behind. Time to test my theory.

“You, I’m going to make a bet. You have a problem that will be magically solved by Lancelot here. Tell us about your problems.”

“Wait a moment Gawain. What’s going on Taliesin? How did you know about Arty?” Bors silenced his friend, but I was on a roll. Bors was trying to help but I couldn't risk my good-natured friend knocking us off course.

“Just trust me for like five minutes alright, I’m sure this is all for the good of Euross.” If that meant it was good for us remained to be seen. Bors gave me a hard look, eventually nodding and taking a seat. Lance was about to speak as well but I just mouthed ‘Lady of the Lake’ at her and she stilled, a tiny amount of colour returning to her face. I stood to the right of Lancelot, the position of a loyal retainer and then gestured to Gawain.

“I am sent by Prince Arthur, he is trapped with another of our compatriots in a Fae realm. Originally this was by Divine Cultivators but now there is a monstrously strong Fae Bear that emerged from it. We initially used the bear as a distraction so I could come for aid, however, it was far stronger than we expected and when I left it was tearing through their forces, I would place the bear at mid-Steel. I came seeking aid.”

“Lancelot, is it too much to hope that ‘the Bear’ part of Lord Fos’ moniker is literal?” I turned back to Lance who had her chin in her hands full of thought.

“No. He’s also higher than mid-Steel.” Damn, that would’ve really solved a lot of problems, “But, ‘The Bear’ nickname actually came in part from his bonded spirit beast Ursul. Ursul is famous for disappearing one day and even my…Lord Fos could never seem to find him. We’ve known he’s not dead but…” Her eyes began to sparkle as the truth hit her.

“Anything that would allow us to identify Ursul?”

“Yes he was one white ear, it’s even the heraldry.” I nodded, I’d forgotten that detail. I turned to Gawain, who nodded.

“That would match the description of the bear,” Gawain confirmed. I saw Bors’ eyes bug out.

“And if Ursul is alive, it means Lord of Fos is too. Which would rather hamper those who would like to imply otherwise, resolving our other key issue of the moment.” That pulled a grin on both Lance and Gaz’s lips. Still, it wasn’t enough, I could sense the story moving around me.

Ever since I’d stepped away from the lake everything seemingly had its purpose. This was an extreme coincidence and one that offered us a great opportunity, but it lacked something. In a sane world, the next act of our story could just be us telling Ban and Elaine about the bear, letting them figure it out. That wasn’t the kind of story I was in.

I knew, and was thankful, that I was not the lead of this destined tale, yet I knew that I was to be part of the next story beat. We had a prince to save, a bear to tame and a town free from the clutches of evil. If this was a bardic tale what would come next? I looked over to Lancelot, who was in her shining armour, regal face, and beautiful hair, seriously how does it look so good after flying around? Was the very picture of a hero. A hero with Moon glamour and the obvious favour of the fae.

“Lancelot, you don’t know of any way to perhaps calm this beast down so we can save the trapped prince and company?”

“Fa…Captain Ban told me he used to be very fond of bagpipes.” She was smiling widely now.

“Of course he is.” Somehow I just knew at that moment that Lancelot would never have picked up the talent from her dad. That a certain someone who liked to learn new instruments would likely be the only person in a hundred miles with the skill.

“Where do we get bagpipes though? He’s got one of the only sets I’ve ever seen? And we can’t go back to Fosburg.” Lance paused, and then we all heard it, a hint of laughter on the wind. A brush of unknowable glamour, the taste of moonlight and the colour of a mirror washed over us. The power pressed down on our group, I felt the power of the lake, those deep black waters consumed me. And then it was gone, the only change was I now held, instead of a lute, a beautiful set of bagpipes. The fabric was of course grey and red tartan.

A touch of the true fae had elicited strong reactions from everyone. Gawain’s stoic face cracked his jaw dropping open. Bors had sunk to one knee, the same as Gawain. Lance looked ready to draw her blade. Gaz collapsed backwards, not bending an inch from his parade position the entire time. Gring posed for a new audience.

I just looked at its new form, and then addressing the air called out, “It better be able to turn back!”

The group looked at me in horror. I just shrugged.

“What? I can’t sing while playing the bagpipes! It cuts down on repertoire immensely.” I focused on the bagpipes and with a twitch of my glamour, not the overwhelming power of a fae goddess, it flickered and my lute was back. “That’s better.”