The Lady Of The Lake

The sound of steel sliding free from its scabbard hushed all in the small glade. Weak light from the late rising sun, filtered through the still mist that rose off the lake. The first twittering of the dawn’s chorus, muted and eerie, drifted through the gloom.

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Four men stood facing the lake, their breath misting. Gauntleted hands wrapped around the hilts of their drawn swords as they watched the ceremony before them.

The fifth person of their band walked slowly, purposefully, to the lake’s edge. Clad only in clothes needed for decency, the newest warrior waded into the frigid waters. Clinging mud sucked on her toes and the icy water gnawed on her bare legs, but she willed herself on. This was not a test she could fail if she was to have revenge, and revenge was all that mattered.

Bloody streaks painted on her face, chest and arms, were symbols of lives lost and those she would take in payment. They would be washed off by the water, but only when she was in deeper than her own height. Her breath shortened to a ragged pant as the icy numbness spread to her waist. Daggers stabbed her kidneys and her hands trembled. Still she did not waver in her determination. With her dark brown eyes focused on the far bank Rayea stumbled on. This was part of the test.

The Baptism of Ice ceremony was used to test an individual’s strength of will. If one could not force oneself to full immersion in the freezing lake, then they were unlikely to survive long in battle, where often your mind must fully control your body, and allow no weakness. It was also to symbolise the washing clean of an individual’s sins. In Rayea’s case the sins were not hers. The dunking was to remind her that only water can wash the blood away.

In silence the four men watched her stumble along the uneven bottom until the water reached her shoulders. The tension in the glade heightened as the moment of truth came. All knew that this strong willed girl could still fail, just when she was so close. As one they drew a deep breath, matching the breath taken by Rayea.

Pain suffused her body now as Rayea dipped her head under the water. Icy claws raked at her eyes and ears. Her lungs screamed for air, her heart pounded as panic began to build in her chest. Her tortured mind sent pictures of herself floating armless and legless in a seething sea of ice. Snapping her head up, Rayea dragged a ragged breath.

Like a drowning dog she slapped at the water with frozen hands. The blood painted on her face smeared into the close cropped hair she had worn since childhood. Panic began to get a firm grip as the blood in her veins cooled. Everything would be lost. Her life, her chance for vengeance, everything.

Visions stabbed into her brain again. But this time they brought heat. The burning fire of outrage. Instead of shying from the terrible sights, Rayea embraced them as fuel for herself. Children slaughtered and butchered. Her friends, family, either killed, raped or beaten. The Barbarians had spared no-one.

Taking another deep breath Rayea dived under the water and swam out towards the centre of the lake. She had no idea why she was going deeper, but felt the need grow within her. Again and again helpless people, her people, were cut down, hacked to bits by laughing hoards of axe wielding fiends. Their cries filled her ears, leaving no room for the icy water. Hot tears burned her eyes as her arms pulled her through the icy black water.

On the shore the group gasped. This was unusual. Most, even the toughest of men, ducked their heads under and then ran for the shore. That Rayea was swimming strongly out towards the centre was a bad sign. Occasionally the freezing temperature would unhinge a person’s mind and they would succumb to the lake. But when that happened, the victim usually just floated away. They didn’t swim towards the centre.

Rayea stopped swimming as she reached the middle of the lake and floated on her back. The water felt cool on her body now, but not cold. Something told her she was in the right place, at the right time. Destiny was bubbling all around her. The weave of history was knotting around this lake, on this morning, and Rayea was in the centre of it.

Rayea took a long deep breath and then flipped over and dove for the bottom of the lake. In inky blackness she pulled herself deeper into the heart of the lake. The pressure of the water pounded in her ears with each stroke. But still she went deeper. Her body began to resist, reasserting its natural tendency to float. For a second Rayea felt a pang of fear that she would not get deep enough. Why she should want to go deeper she did not know. But in her bones she knew that if she went back up now all would be lost.

But just as she felt her strength fading, and consciousness leaving, she reached the bottom and stood up. She found herself on a winding path in the middle of what appeared to be a garden. Without questioning the whys and the hows, Rayea began to walk along one path that seemed to lead towards the centre of the garden.

It was an eerie feeling being under the lake and walking through these strange gardens. Tiled paths wound around beds of strangely coloured flowers. Small finely manicured shrubs marked the various branches where one path led off from another.

On a stone bench an old man sat waiting for her. She knew this in her soul, and did not question when he beckoned her to sit. His robes flowed softly and his voice although muffled, was full and rich.

“You have come here child, for vengeance” he stated. “And vengeance you shall have. Those who have wronged you shall suffer, as those they wronged suffered. In this you will have our aide.”
Rayea opened her mouth to thank him, but he raised a gnarled finger and spoke again. “There is a price however.”
A quirking of her lips indicated that Rayea understood. “There is always a price.”

Seeing her understanding the old man continued. “You will vanquish your enemy and they will not return. But you must return, here to us. You will become one of us.”

Rayea considered a moment and then asked “Are you dead?” The old man thought for a few moments before replying.
“No, we are not dead, nor alive either. We are not wholly a part of this world or the next, we live between worlds.” Then he smiled, showing teeth still strong and wrinkles well used to the shape of his smile. “It is not a bad existence, and your company would be most welcome.”

Rayea could not help smiling back. There was something familiar about this man that she just couldn’t place. She felt she knew him and trusted him, although the connection to conscious recognition eluded her. But her course was already set, and she agreed to his terms.

The old man rose and began to walk along the path away from where Rayea had first stepped onto it. She walked alongside him quietly looking at the magnificent gardens. Then as they reached an intersection where five paths met in a small circle, he turned and bade her farewell.

Rayea began walking along the path the old man had indicated would lead her back to the shore. Just as it occurred to her that she should really be swimming instead of walking, her head broke the surface of the lake. She could see the four men still standing their vigil over her and she smiled. Trustworthy friends were few these days, but these men were deserving of her trust. These were men of honour.

Water sloughed from her as she strode powerfully to the edge of the lake. Her face, chest and arms were clean, and in her hand, its weight unnoticed, was a gleaming sword. Her shift clung to her young body, which failed to tremble in the cold. Ripples raced away towards the far bank, heralding her arrival as she stepped clear of the water and stood dripping on the frozen ground. Eyes the colour of the lake behind her, took in each of the men in turn.

Then with a triumphant cry she raised the gleaming sword above her head and vowed again to avenge the rape of her village.

In stunned silence her four companions watched as she vowed to the cardinal points that she would destroy her enemy, and any who stood in her way. All knew the madness that comes over one in the midst of battle, where any movement is considered to be a threat, anyone standing is a foe. A wrong move by either of them could result in bloodshed. So like statues they stood and watched, as the dripping woman worked through the rage and clawed her way back to sanity.

The small prickles of pain started in her toes and worked their way up her legs. With them came a shaking that, no matter how she tried, Rayea could not stop. Her anger filled oaths subsided to sniffling sobs, and in her hand the weight of the sword became too much. Like a hollowed out haystack, Rayea collapsed into a dishevelled shaking heap.

The etiquette of the Baptism of Ice ceremony demanded that she build her own fire and cook her own meal. A further test of the strength of mind and will. But Rayea was in no shape to do either. Were this to be a normal ceremony, the four on vigil would have to stand and watch her slowly freeze to death. But this was far from normal.

Rayea had entered the lake unarmed. Her eyes had been dark brown and her hair cropped short. When she had surged onto the bank carrying the gleaming sword and stared at them with intense green eyes, any thought of this being a normal ceremony was gone. Her long hair, white as bleached bone, had flowed out behind her as if she were still in the grip of the lake. No-one would gainsay their efforts to help her, for Rayea had obviously been chosen by the Gods.

Quickly Rayea’s companions worked to build a warming fire and cook some stew. The eldest of their group, a man of learning more than the sword he carried on his back, stripped her wet clothes and rubbed her shivering skin dry. Then wrapping her in a blanket he picked Rayea up and carried her to the fire’s edge.

Rayea stared into the flickering flames as if transfixed by visions dancing within. Her hands worked unconsciously to wring the last of the water from her hair. It was not until she flipped her head to send the tresses over her shoulder that it struck her as odd.

She had never had long hair in her life. Startled and a little afraid she looked up at her companions for reassurance. All of them met her stare squarely but it was obvious none had the answers she needed. She began to tremble, from more than the cold.

At last the stew was hot and ready. The band shared a silent breakfast as the mist slowly burned off the lake. Rayea’s shaking eased as she gobbled the last of her stew down. Then wiping her hand across her mouth Rayea turned to the man who had towelled her dry.

“What say you Merlin? Am I bewitched?”
The man stared at her for a moment, hawk-like brows pulled down over his piercing eyes, then turned his contemplative gaze towards the fire. “Nay child. More I would say thee have been chosen. The Gods have marked a destiny for thee. They have changed thee and given thee yon sword. On my word, I think thy destiny is to rid us of this evil tide.”

Rayea nodded. He had confirmed her own suspicions. The meeting under the lake could have been an illusion of the mind brought on by the freezing waters. But the sword was real, and it fit her hand as if forged for her alone. She caressed the hilt and felt a comfort at the cool, smooth steel. It was unremarkable in design, without stylish or fancy quillons. This was a sword forged for blood spilling battle, not for the pompous show of pageantry.

Never one to doubt or to ponder overly long on things, Rayea’s mind was already on the job of riding the land of the vermin that had invaded it. If she were chosen, then it was her duty. If she were cursed, then she would take this curse and bend it to her own ends. She could spend days, months, years even, trying to figure out the significance of her strange transformation, and all the while her people would suffer.

Rayea was not a scholar, she could read a little, but could not write. Until the fur clad barbarians had invaded the peace of her village, she had been just another farmer’s daughter. She worked hard and spoke her mind, a trait that often got her into trouble. But when the raiding began it was Rayea who urged her village to stand firm and resist. They had done so for two summers. But the toll on the village had been high.

Rayea knew that eventually they would be beaten, so she had gone on a quest to find men to help defend the village. Alone and poorly armed she had survived by her wits until she found the four men who were with her. They had wanted no gold, no goats, and no women in payment for helping the village. They had asked only for a home, a place where they could live without persecution. Rayea had agreed immediately, never thinking to ask why they would need such a refuge.

For another month they had journeyed to reach her village, and in that time Rayea had learned much from them. From the gruff Scotsman, Henry, she learned the hunter’s arts, of stalking and ambush. She learned about strange lands from Ahmed, of heroes, villains and peoples from the Holy Land. Joseph taught Rayea the use of sword and dagger. She was a quick study, and with the determination inbred in her and the strength garnered from years working in the fields, Rayea quickly grew to be able to hold her own when sparing with him and the others. Merlin, so much like her father, showed her the gentleness that resides in the warrior. But all her training and hard work availed her naught when at last the band arrived at the small besieged village.

It was late evening with the winter sun already set when they rounded the corner in the road and looked on Rayea’s village. The first ominous clues that something was wrong were the lack of torches burning atop the barricades. That, and the smell of death, rich and heavy on the still crisp air.

In tear choked desperation Rayea rushed through the debris choked streets calling the names of her family and friends as she passed their dark houses. It wasn’t until a stumbling fall fetched her up against the side of Henry Tallman’s tavern that she realised the debris she had stumbled over were bodies.

Her stomach clenched and with ragged sobs she vomited, again and again. It seemed as if the whole world had turned evil and no matter what she did, nothing would ever be right.

Rayea had no idea how long she knelt in the ruins of her village, the stench of dead flesh clogging her lungs. The screams of the victims seemed to echo around inside her head, and flashes of their terrible deaths stabbed her mind. Rayea didn’t know how or why these visions assailed her, she only knew the burning desire for vengeance was building in her gut, insatiable and demanding.

It had been Merlin who quietly lifted her up, and with tender hands supported her as she stumbled back out onto the road outside the village. He held her as she wept as would a father holding a young child. The rest of the band checked the village for survivors and any presence of the barbarians. Of the first there were few, of the second there were none.

Old Mrs. Turner, blind in one eye and nearly toothless, had survived when the rest of the village had not. But her survival was not an easy one. Nearly insane with terror and grief she refused food or shelter, even when Rayea begged her to eat, insisting that she be left to die with her people. Just before the old woman shuffled back into the shattered village she turned her one good eye on Rayea and said. “You left here child, on a quest to find a way to rid us of the barbarians. Now we are gone. Avenge us girl! With your dying breath, avenge us!” The old woman’s plea burned into Rayea’s soul. It was as if she were branded with a purpose, and life was not her own any more.

That night as the band shared a quiet supper, Rayea asked permission to take the rites to become a knight.
There was precedent and looking into her fierce brown eyes burning with need, none had the will to deny her. That decision had led them all to the frosty shores of the lake, and to Rayea’s transformation.

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A crisp frosty sun rose the morning after Rayea’s Baptism of Ice, shining a weak light into the bare branches of the forest. Misty streamers flared in the clearings lending an ethereal light to the group of five as they left the shores of the lake. They did not know which direction to take, they trusted in Rayea to lead them to their quarry. For her part, the farmer’s daughter turned knight just hoped they would find their foe before another village like hers was sundered.

Their footfalls crunched in the frost as Winter stayed her course and wrapped the land in a biting chill. The sun, weak and pasty, barely held enough warmth to soften the fingers of ice that grew on bare frost-rimmed branches. Spring would come, but not for another month and until then Winter would keep her grip on the land.

The group travelled south for two weeks looking for the hoard that terrorised the villages of Rayea’s valley. It seemed they followed in the wake of a giant beast, feeding as it ambled through the countryside. They passed farms burned and looted. The few possessions the poor people owned were scattered about like chaff. Men were found dead where they had been hacked down. Few of the women were found, and when they were, Merlin never let Rayea see them. Always someone in the band held her back as she protested and swore. But her friends remained steadfast in the face of her verbal onslaught, doing their best to protect her troubled spirit.

Early in the morning as the group laboured up the lee slope of one of the many downs, the sound they had been searching for and dreading, drifted over the crest. The beast was feeding again.

Under the cloudless blue sky, a scene from the deepest pit of despair played out in front of the band’s tortured eyes as they crested the hill. The barbarians had sacked a convent and were taking their pleasure from the defenceless nuns, killing the elderly or those who resisted too strongly.

In stunned silence the band stood and watched, mute and helpless. They were five, the barbarians were fifty. Rayea’s friends were all veterans of many campaigns. They had seen misdeeds that would make Satan cry. But what was being played out in the valley below them seemed unreal, borne of some dread nightmare, dragged up from the darkest pits of hell. Hardly breathing they stood and witnessed the work of their enemy first hand.

The ring of steel slowly drawn dragged the men’s thoughts from the despair of their helplessness. Rayea stood legs braced, sword in hand. Her eyes burned, flashing green. Small gusts of wind tossed her hair as she struggled to contain her rage.

Merlin quickly sought to quell the madness building in her. “Peace child. There is naught we can do for yon poor wretches. We are outnumbered and no amount of bravery will win this day.” Rayea glared at him, the voice rumbling in her chest, laden with threat. “Today is the day these vermin die, or I die. Your destiny is your own. But stand in my way at your peril. My sword tastes blood now!”

With a shake of her head Rayea stalked past her friends and began running down the steep slope towards the men in ragged furs. Her companions spared one moment to share a look before they too rushed down to confront the men who held nothing sacred.

Rayea bounded through the long grass and bounced over the rutted ground as if she were off for a tryst with a secret lover. Her heart felt light and her breath easy as she brought the sword up over her head. The sunlight flared off the blade as it sang through the air, almost glowing with the joy of righteous battle. It was the weight of a feather in her hands as she swept down on the first barbarian.

Engrossed in subduing a rotund sister, the man never even saw the stroke that beheaded him. Nor did he hear the woman’s scream of terror as the wraithlike shape of Rayea, the Angel of Vengeance, bore on. She was followed in an instant by four more shapes, barely more than shadows themselves.

Muttering a quick phrase in a language few could learn, let alone use, Merlin cast spells of confusion to aid their mad rush into battle. They were hardly needed. Secure in their arrogance, the barbarians had posted no sentries or guards. All were engaged in sating their lust.

Her hair flying like a banner, the cry of vengeance on her lips, Rayea descended on the men with death dealing abandon. She gave no thought to her defence, save what was needed for her to slay all the men in fur. Unafraid of death, she became the worst enemy a man can face.

Equally bloodied, her friends hacked their way through groups of men belatedly realising they were under attack. As Rayea reached the convent gates the call to arms sounded, a long mournful note of dread. With curses and bellows of anger the barbarians left their victims in the frozen mud and surged towards the convent gates.

Rayea felt the blood pound at her temples as the chill air burned her lungs. The gore stained sword was still light in her grasp and eager for more. It seemed to pull her, begging to be swung again and again. The Angel of Vengeance checked her stride as her friends dispatched two men in the act of pulling up their trousers, and hurried over to her.

Merlin was splattered with blood and the others fared no better. But none seemed to have taken any serious wounds and looked determined to carry the fight. “Well met teacher” smiled Rayea grimly. “I make half their number dead or wounded, half to go.”
Joseph chuckled as Henry swore in disbelief. “What have we wrought here Merlin?” asked the big Scotsman. “A she-devil to turn the hounds of hell into cowering lap dogs. She’ll be the death of us all, or our saviour. And I'm not at all sure which I'd prefer.”

Merlin grunted his agreement and stared down at the face he had come to love. Rayea had become the daughter he had prayed for and never been given. She was beautiful on that morning. Her hair flowing like a war banner, her eyes burning with life, her smile so sure and confident, she looked every part the Avenging Angel she had hoped to become.

Rayea looked back at the man who had held her and taught her and had asked nothing in return. His gaze seemed locked to her face. “Now what?” she asked.
“Now…” said Merlin drawing a raged breath. “Now we fight for our very lives.”

Furred bodies like upright wolves, gathered around the bulky presence of their leader and prepared to descend on the tiny band standing by the gate. Their guttural cries for blood echoed along the valley like a demon’s song. Steel bristled from their mass like talons, seeking to rend the flesh from their foe.

But their posturing had no effect on Rayea who saw only the need to send these fiends to the deepest hell in creation. With a cry that thirsted for blood she charged the group, swinging the mystical sword before her. “Merlin….” cried Joseph as he too rushed into the fray.

There was no chance at all that Rayea could survive such a rash attack. The barbarians would surround her and beat her to the ground within seconds. Already the grins of those men in the front of the mob were widening as they realised they faced a young woman. She would pay for the death wrought on their clan, and the method of her payment would be as slow and cruel as they could possibly make it.

While the others dashed to join the fight, Merlin calmed his heart and centred his mind. He drew deeply on his reserves of strength and knowledge. Power built inside him. His life force concentrated itself in his chest as he drew ever more into the spell he would cast. Pain began to flash in his head as he dammed back the force that begged for release. Then as he felt his control slipping the wizard shouted, “ Rayea, down!” There was the power of Command in his voice and Rayea’s knees buckled, throwing her to the frozen ground.

Cued to attack on the massed barbarians, the others leapt face down also. Rayea felt the heat on her back and heard her hair sizzle as the wizard’s ball of fire raced over her head.

Caught in an expectant crouch the men in the front row took the full brunt of the fireball. None had time to scream before their lungs were incinerated and faces melted. Those behind suffered worse. Most caught the blast on their faces and were seared and disfigured. But their comrades in front shielded them from the killing effects of the fire. The deaths of those in front allowed the others to live on, in agony.

When Rayea looked up she nearly vomited at the carnage their band had wrought. Three of the barbarians still stood, lost in shock, staring mutely at the charred remains of their brothers. Axes held limply in nerveless hands they stared unresisting as Joseph and Henry dispatched them.
Ahmed’s curved sword silenced the cries of the other victims with clean even handed swipes, as if he were a butcher moving through a pen of animals.

And then an eerie silence reigned as if the world held its breath, waiting. Ahmed bent to help a stricken nun up from the mud, but she shied away covering her face with grimy hands, screaming, “Demons, demons from the black pits of hell!” On her hands and knees she scrambled away from the big man, blindly searching for the gate into the safety of the convent, for a way to the past before the barbarians arrived.

Other figures covered in frozen dirt scrambled after her, doing their best to avoid the small band standing amidst the burned and wrecked bodies. Most cursed them in their passing and one or two even spat at the warriors who had delivered them from the hands of evil men.

Dumbfounded Rayea stood with the bloodied sword in her hand and watched as the last of the women scuttled through the gate and strained to close it, locking the band out on the frozen field.
“Why…?” she began as Merlin placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Now you know the value of a place where you are not judged child” he replied. Rayea sought to argue but Merlin pulled her into a bear hug embrace. “Weep child” he whispered into her hair. “Let the demons free.” Rayea resisted for a moment then as fatigue and relief washed over her, she sagged against Merlin’s chest and sobbed. For many long moments the pair stood amidst the carnage, a pillar of light in a dark, charred landscape.

Slowly the rage and anguish that burned in her gut dissipated and bled away. No longer hungry for vengeance, her soul sought new direction and purpose. Into the void came the geas laid upon her by the people of the lake. She must fulfil her bargain and return to the frigid waters.

With a last look at the scared walls of the convent, the band trudged back up the steep slope and headed north. Rayea did not know whether to pity the nuns or be contemptuous of them. Saved from the ravening barbarians, they had spurned the help of their saviours, and cursed them as devils. “If only I had your understanding” she murmured to Merlin.
“Thee will child, in time” he replied. “And thee will have time to learn. One day perhaps thy knowledge will rival that of mine. Only time shall tell.”
Little else was said as they marched slowly back towards the lake where the final act in Rayea’s destiny on this world would be played out.

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It took another two and a half weeks to return to the lake. By then winter was giving way to spring. Life was returning to the ravaged countryside. Small green shoots peeked out from the crusty soil and reached for the life giving sun. Buds began swelling on the bare branches of trees as the renewing cycle drew the sap higher. And as the season changed into the cycle of beginnings, people found themselves free from the tyranny of the invading barbarians.

In the villages the band passed through, many a citizen thanked them and wished them God speed. But none offered them a place to shelter for more than a night. They were grateful for their deliverance, and they would be even more grateful when their deliverers had left.

Rayea began to understand the value of a place called “Home,” and realised that it was something that her friends were unlikely to have in this life. In her breast she felt a longing to be home. It was a sickness that could only be cured by returning to the lake. The geas allowed her no other option. Rayea felt that the lake was her home now. The village of her birth held nothing but distant fond memories. The nightmares of her return had been banished in the battle, and it was with a sense of hope and belonging that she led the way down to the still waters in the evening’s soft light.

The glade was strangely silent as the four men stood looking at the ground, scuffing their worn boots against the dirt. Rayea divested herself of her few possessions and then turned to face the men she had come to love as comrades. She hugged each in turn she wished them well.

Gruff old Henry slapped her on the back and whispered hoarsely in her ear, “Thee are a demon child. The nights will seem much darker without thee. Keep ye safe.” Then he turned away as she wiped a tear from her nose with a snuffle.

Joseph smiled down at Rayea and ruffled her hair. “Henry be right lass. Thee are indeed a demon.” A wide grin split his craggy face. “But ye be our demon.” Then he too hugged her and slapped her back. “We’ll miss thee child.”

Ahmed cut a short length of silk from his robe and tied Rayea’s hair with it so that it hung in a ponytail down her back. “Remember us sweet child,” he said softly. “For you we shall never forget.” Tears streamed down her face as Rayea hugged him. She sobbed aloud as he pulled away and scrubbed his fist roughly across his face.

Rayea could barely face Merlin. He had become so much more than the saviour of her people. He had become her mentor, her teacher, her friend, and she loved more than she dared admit, even to herself. Weeping openly she rushed into his arms and hugged him as if he were the only stable rock in the turbulent river of life.

For his part Merlin smiled and kissed the top of her head. Tears welled in his eyes and his hands trembled as he slowly pushed her away. Their eyes met and the wizard spoke softly. “Be happy Rayea, and know that thy face shall live in our hearts for all time.”

Smiling through the tears, Rayea’s voice was laden with the weight of prophecy as she replied, “Peace be with you Merlin, Maker of Kings. May you be loved and welcomed wherever you go.”

Then she turned and walked slowly to the water’s edge. The cold mud embraced her toes and the water lapped around her ankles as Rayea entered the lake. She did not feel the bite on her flesh as the water rose around her. Steps sure and confident, heart swelling with the happiness of returning home, Rayea surged deeper into the placid water. All her fears and failures were washed away, like the blood painted on her the last time she entered the water. For the first time in her life Rayea felt truly free.

Just before she ducked under the shimmering green surface, Rayea looked back at her friends watching on the shore. Grief lined their craggy visages, and sagged their shoulders. She smiled and waved, then disappeared under the frosty waters.

On the shore the group let out a strangled cry in unison. Their daughter of the sword was gone. It was as if she had been slain before their eyes and there was nothing they could do to prevent it. All had known the bargain Rayea had struck with the folk of the lake, and all knew that this would be Rayea’s end. But that didn’t soften the blow the men felt in their valiant hearts. All they had left of Rayea was the shimmering sword, cradled like a child in Merlin’s arms.

He brought it slowly to his lips and kissed the blade, whispering “In thy honour sweet lady do I pledge my heart to this land. I will make thee a king of such honour and fame that his name will ring out through the eons of history.” So sworn, the wizard and his companions left the lake, and the lady they loved, to forge a new country from the ruins of the old.

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