Arthurian Cultivation

I adjusted my courtly bardic outfit. The black and red jerkin and hose felt a little ridiculous. Black beads with the lustre of pearls dotted my cuffs and neck, and my shoes had a curl to the ends of them that were positively knife-like. The magic of my shifting clothes never allowed me to be discreet, and while I wasn’t a fan of melding into the background, I could’ve done with something a bit less puffy.

Next to me, Sephy gave me a critical once-over. She was also in a regal tabard and a refined skirt. Normally when dressed down it tended to cause men to stare, and as a corrective stabbing of your allies caused friction, she’d gone the diplomatic route.

Ahead of the feast we had to be introduced to King Phischer. The ornery old monarch whose brain we so desperately wanted to pick. The group had held off meeting him in part due to my illness.

The man was rather obsessed with hearing about Vermald’s final moments, and Bors was not a good storyteller.

Besides, they knew I had a present to deliver, and had a king to impress.

We’d collected our most politically savvy members. Myself, Sephy, Tristan, and Maeve were currently being led through the halls of Corbinec Castle. We’d made sure to include a dressed-down Tristan so he could act as watchman, plus some could be odd about female cultivators, seeming to believe they couldn’t hold the same place as a man. Though that tended to be only the mortal kings.

Phischer was a Bronze cultivator and should be above such petty beliefs, but better to be safe than sorry.

We were after all trying to make an impression upon him, just as he was trying to upon us, if our tour of the castle was to be believed.

The ancient structure was a true relic of the past, with sections being part of the regional governor’s manor from the time of the Atlantean Empire. Across the entirety of the mountains the only buildings older were probably the ruins beneath the giant tree that marked the Verdant Folly.

I wasn’t best pleased to appreciate the architecture. If I wasn’t a cultivator I’d still be in bed. My arm ached despite the sling, and only by necking a restorative brew was I holding myself together.

A perfectly turned-out butler led us through the halls. Past tapestries that had seen better days but still held a certain majesty and power. The guards were all low-level cultivators, not a single one above Bronze, but that was still impressive. Phischer’s Kingdom was one of the powerhouses of the mountains, and part of why we’d had to go to such extreme lengths to earn his favour and avoid pissing him off was that he had the clout to encourage all his neighbours to spurn us.

We approached a pair of doors set into marble. Faint marks of runes danced across them. They were clearly an artefact of ages past, even if much of their power was drained by the passing of time. They were marked with regal designs that I recognised as Atlantean. The Empire was remembered differently by different factions.

The door was twice my height, and wide enough that you could’ve sent a carriage right through it without scraping the sides. The dark wood was shaped to highlight sixteen panels of beaten gold, each one patterned to show an event. I only recognised a couple. The founding of Atlantis, and what stories called the first great trial, when two heirs nearly split the Empire. The image of the brother staring into the eyes of his decapitated sibling was a common motif.

I couldn’t help but think of all the history lost.

To many they were an oppressive regime that sucked power and wealth from the edges. Yet they’d also changed the way the world worked, connecting Euross in a way that never faded. Some nations, especially the mortals, clung to the idea that they’d brought the light of civilisation and venerated the ancient Empire. Others focused on how that light came with fire, burning down all that didn’t fit the Empire’s fancy.

Albion was no great fan of the Empire. It was studied as one might a predator. It was given respect even as we studied how to put it down should such a threat surface again.

Even the Divine Cultivators, who tried to shape themselves as the inheritors of the Empire they’d infested, had struggled to change that narrative. And they’d been somewhat surprised by the resistance, that even nations obsessed with the Empire hadn’t been overly keen to see its return.

It was one thing to talk about your amazing ancestor. It was another thing entirely to find his corpse popping up and demanding your attention.

Still, even if the door made me uncomfortable and spoke to history long dead, it made my soul sing. We were out here looking for relics from the fall of Atlantis, and here before us was an exact mark of that history.

A wave of glamour passed through the doors and the runes pulsed. The doors swung open.

The butler led us into a grand throne room. It was easily the best we’d seen in all our time in the mountains. Insert description of a Roman governor’s reception, add that members of the court stand off to the side watching, though their eyes keep flicking back to their king, watching him like a mouse might watch a lazy cat, wary of the slightest shift.

“Presenting of the Round Table, Dame Maeve, Dame Persephone, Sir Tristan, and Bard Taliesin.”

“You are in the presence of King Phischer, Guardian of Corbinec, General of the hinterlands, and Governor Inheritor.”

We knelt before the throne and I took in the king we offered our supplication to.

King Phischer, a dried husk of a man. His skin was thin and liver-spotted, his hair patchy and grey. He was hunched over, with hands like claws, and he’d have looked every bit the waning older man just waiting for time or a particularly impatient heir to see him off this mortal coil.

That would be if it wasn’t for the eyes. They were sharp like razors. Cutting about the room, catching every movement, spotting pairs of people who gathered and whispered, following the glasses that were checked by his poison taster. I knew those eyes. They were the eyes of the paranoid, of the untrusting.

They reminded me of the Harkley Patriarch.

I suppressed a shudder. We all paused, held by the King’s will. Most of the monarchs we’d met had been all but falling over themselves to balance the power. Some had insisted we didn’t even kneel, others had stood to meet us. But not Phischer.

It felt like he was still weighing us up.

“Stand, members of the Round Table. I welcome you to my hall and will hear your report.” The King’s voice was dry, the words rasping across his lips like a rusty file. We stood as one.

As I stood I wobbled slightly, the remnants of the poison and sudden shift in body enough to unsettle me. It was barely anything, and yet Sephy noticed. She shot me a worried look, but I shook my head the tiniest amount. I would’ve struggled if this had been a more physical task, but I would hold out long enough to speak my piece.

I just had to hold out to the feast after this. I’d had a little porridge to eat, and while it’d served enough to help settle my stomach, it’d awoken in me a deep hunger that only eating entire farm animals would cure.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“We will begin with an outline of the task. We accepted the bounty on the Dark Sorcerer Vermald posted at the Golden Keep by the wise and just King Phischer, supported by other aggrieved kings across the mountains.” Maeve spoke. I often forgot just how polished the Chox scion was when it came to politics. Among our group that side of her had disappeared, and she was often taciturn, preferring to live and breathe the blade, being difficult to approach outside of that focus.

Especially if your name was Arthur.

Here though, as she outlined the operation, speaking with just the right amount of flattery to stoke the flames of the King’s ego without sounding like some desperate sycophant, I couldn’t help but admire her skill. My own silver tongue had a tendency to wander, my words growing flowery and my recollection unfocused.

She described our search, collection of information, and the aid from other mountain holdings with enough detail to paint a picture and ensure all who should receive accolades got them smoothly. She represented us perfectly.

I watched Phischer. I’d somewhat expected him to be bored, given how obsessed he was with the death of Vermald. Yet he didn’t hesitate. He kept a kingly level of attention upon us, looking down his nose just the right amount. I also spotted the butler from before off to one side, taking comprehensive notes. As much as his reputation was one of a bitter, angry old man, his domain had been stable for untold generations. He was far from incompetent.

“Persephone will speak briefly to the monster we encountered, and then Taliesin will cover how we stopped Vermald fleeing. Unless you have questions.” Maeve paused.

“Dame Maeve, your report is well delivered and well received. We shall mark the names of those who aided the Kingdom. Continue.” His voice was even, but I felt his eyes lock onto me, his expectation clear.

“The monster was some manner of crypt abomination. A creature of twisted magic, an amalgam of the bodies of the innocent he’d fed it. It was Iron rank, and bound with his runic magic, though I suspect it didn’t fight his dominion as it was kept so well fed.” Persephone paused. I felt a chill wash over the room, part of her aura leaking out. It was the first I’d heard her, or any of the Knights, speak of the monster, and if the mere recollection was enough to make her control flicker, I wouldn’t be asking any questions.

“I will not speak of it in further detail, as the idea of anyone trying to recreate or locate such a monstrosity haunts me. All I will say is that should another Death cultivator with such vile inclinations appear in these mountain passes, we will come and put an end to it. We will ask no questions and seek no reward.” Persephone let the promise hang, part threat, part pledge. “As to its fate, it and all notes about its nature were burned and buried.”

“Dame Persephone, we appreciate your insight and will remain vigilant to such abominations. Now let us hear of the end of the architect of this insult to cultivation.”

“If it pleases Your Majesty, I would share the man’s end as a song. My songs are sung far and wide, and I thought that capturing his end in words that others would share and listen to was a fitting end.” We’d discussed this. I’d been writing a piece since before we’d even killed Vermald. We’d always planned to offer up a song to Phischer. The man was obsessed with his legacy.

“It does. Let us hear your words, oh Bard.” The King smiled. It was an ugly thing.

It was meant to be accompanied by a lute, but my voice would have to do. My bandaged arm was far from being able to handle the strings. Thankfully the poison hadn’t scrambled my memories or taken my voice from me.

The song deserved a bawdy tune beneath it. I’d written it with both court and tavern in mind. Yet with my voice alone it held a haunting quality, the stately room elevating the words to something akin to an omen. I felt my power flare, different to normal. My words felt more stable, as I devoted all my awareness to them.

At Phischer’s word rode the Table Round,

Up the goat tracks, over stone,

To smoke a sorcerer from his hole,

While the Green Knight’s Oak stood looming lone.

Steel went in where echoes choke,

Down into the mountain’s throat,

But the bard stayed out where daylight clings,

And the old Oak watched, and never spoke.

Oh Vermald, Vermald, ego as a king,

With pockets of pride and pockets of sin,

You stamped and you strutted and shouted your name,

Till the Oak leaned close and laughed you in.

Out crept the rat with his chest and schemes,

Sniffing the air, half mad with dreams,

Till a clever horse and a slipping load,

Spilled all his plans down the mountain road.

The bard stepped in with a smile too calm,

No raised blade, no sounding alarm,

Just words that danced and invited a boast,

Till Vermald swelled like a festival toast.

Oh Vermald, Vermald, angry and vile,

Terror of hearths he never saw,

He swore the king had forgotten his name,

While the Oak kept count of every flaw.

“Phischer’s done,” Vermald crowed,

“I’m past his reach, above his crown,”

He weighed his thefts like chalices and rings,

And named himself a doom of kings.

So blows were traded, light and neat,

As old Green Knight tales like to repeat,

Strike for strike in borrowed pride,

With the Oak still waiting, patient, wide.

Oh Vermald, Vermald, take your swing,

Bare your throat and call it brave,

For fools who beg to be legends made

Get answered with shallow graves.

He lunged for glory, hungry, blind,

Certain a hero he’d surely bind,

But fate sent laughter, sharp and plain,

And hubris paid its final pain.

No knight of myth, no chosen son,

No shining doom, no final run,

For when a fool asks the world to see,

A bard will do just perfectly.

Oh Vermald, Vermald, hear it sung,

From courtly hall to tavern smoke,

You thought yourself a tale for kings,

But died a joke beneath the Oak.

I finished, letting the last word ring out. I’d taken some risks. I’d worked a mention of chalices in hopes it might give us a chance to speak on the subject later. I’d also stolen heavily from the tale of the Green Knight. The locals held the fae in reverence. While some cursed it, many saw it as the dam that protected them from a flood of cultivators. The kings in particular often included aspects of it in their heraldry, quietly showing deference to the main reason their petty kingdoms were not drained of their cultivators by Order and Covens.

There was silence. I had bowed low and regretted it as my arm ached, but I didn’t feel it appropriate to rise until there was some manner of response from the King. I got my wish a moment later.

Laughter like the spasms of a corpse burst forth. Phischer choked and began to applaud, and with his action the rest of the court exploded into appreciation.

I stood, being careful not to wobble.

It seemed that the King liked my gift.