Camelot 2050: Dragon Fire

By David Cartwright and MJ Bridger

Camelot 2050: Dragon Fire is the Second instalment in the Camelot 2050 Trilogy that rewrites the ending of the classic legend of King Arthur, and transports the reader to a near-future England ruled over by the ancestral line of Pendragon and the Knights of the Round Table. The war against Morgana le Fay rages on as th

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Cartwright
• Release date: Aug 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781527227866

Book preview

Prologue: The Le Fay Campaign.

The so-called le Fay Campaign began in earnest following the attempted invasion of Great Yarmouth by Queen Morgana’s forces. Defeated and forced into retreat, the Norse Raiders under her banner have been tracked by ships of the Camelot fleet back through the Skagerrak strait and into the Baltic Sea. The Southern Jarls of Norway and Sweden are angered that their kinsmen in the North have formed an alliance with the banner of the Purple Dragon, and allow a staging post to be established just outside Stockholm. The Gulf of Bothnia is a constant battleground of Scandinavian and Norse vessels. Together with the Queen of Denmark, they form a blockade effectively isolating the Baltic. The Le Fay ships maintain a cordon of their own between Helsinki and Tallinn, so the combined allied fleet set up repeated strikes from Stockholm to occupy those ships before establishing a landing force to strike into the Gulf of Riga.

In Europe, a line is drawn, and troops have amassed along the borders of Lithuania, Belarus and in the Ukraine along the Dnieper River, and from Zaporizhia to the coast at Melitopol, effectively splitting the country in two. The allies’ progress is hindered by insurgent forces striking military and civilian targets, those that supply and serve the military, and other random ‘soft’ targets. The Ottoman Empire declares itself neutral in the conflict, but the Sea of Azov, north of the Black Sea, is hotly contested. Morgana’s forces hold Krasnodar and Sevastopol and approach the loyalist Ukrainian territory from Dzhankoi.

While the efforts of Merlin and the remnants of the M.A.G.E.s guild of Camelot have put an end to the sudden and brutal teleportation of Morgana’s shock troops in and out of Europe, her terrorist network is still extensive, organised and well-equipped. The constant fires burning in the major cities of Europe and the United Kingdom attest to their resolve and fanaticism. London, Manchester, Edinburgh, Paris, Marseille, Madrid, Berlin, Hamburg; all these cities and more are in a state of constant alert, and armed police and soldiers patrol the streets, draining valuable personnel from the front lines, and putting the emergency services under constant pressure for staff and supplies. The civilian population attempt to go on with their normal routine as much as possible, but the insidious currents of fear and paranoia run close to the surface. Violent outbreaks and civil unrest add to the chaos and confusion of the inner cities, further taxing the civilian authorities.

The media spreads wide the news of any and all successes against the insurgents, while tacitly downplaying the terrorist attacks, but the public Info-net is awash with people's accounts, videos and pictures of the war taking place in their country; their county, their city, town, village and street.

Europe teeters on the edge of anarchy; an oppressive twilight in the face of the looming darkness which stretches forth its leathery wings from the East.

The Le Fay Campaign: 5 Weeks Advanced.

Rosalyn Pendragon awoke to dull, strobing red light in the darkness. Not the twilight darkness of her tent which she was used to, with the floodlights of the base camp piercing through the flaps and crevices, but all consuming blackness punctuated only by the dim red light.

She drew a breath. The air was close, warm and damp, and she could detect the bitter taste of carbon dioxide build up. Blinking in the dark, she found what had awoken her. The external air filter readout; the warning light was trying to tell her that they were blocked, and the recycling air was contaminated.

Was she still in her armour? Her head was fuzzy, memories clouded and fractured. She tried to move but something held her down. A wave of panic and claustrophobia rose up from her gut and threatened to override her reason.

Sensing her rising biorhythms, her armour dropped out of hibernation and more lights in her display came slowly to life. The added illumination calmed her somewhat, but a bead of cold sweat still broke out on her brow and traced down her clammy forehead before it dripped from her nose and onto the screen.

She watched the drop. It ran slowly toward the top of the visual unit. So, she was face down, pinned by something. Checking her systems briefly, she was reassured to find her suit battery at fifty six percent, but her armour integrity was compromised.

As she moved, a stabbing pain lanced through her abdomen. Breathing slowly and fighting the pain, she flexed her fingers, then her wrists from side to side. It seemed she had just enough lateral movement to drag her arms to her sides.

Palms down, elbows bent, she could feel something grinding against her shoulder plates, resisting her movements

A wave of nausea swept over her as the wound in her side protested her efforts.  Fighting down the bile in her throat and a resurgence of claustrophobia, she tensed, bracing on her palms and knees, and heaved with all her augmented strength. Bio-enhanced muscles levered against carbon-polymer weave-laced bones. Micro-servos whirred, initiating the hydraulic amplification of her muscles’ efforts.

Her leverage position wasn’t ideal, and her abdomen burned with fresh agony, but the added power of her suit gave her some headway and she strained to capitalise on it. Gritting her teeth, she pushed until, with a squeal of grinding metal, the weight atop her eased.

As light broke through her tomb, the armour systems blanked the visual display to counter the sudden flare, but Ros was kneeling and stripping her helmet off anyway. Gasping against the subsiding pain, she emerged into a grey world.

Ashen flakes drifted through a haze of smoke. At points around her and elevated into the woods, the tops of trees burned, lending eerie, flickering shadows to the scene.

She pressed a gauntleted hand to the rupture in her armour; it came away damp with fresh blood. For the time-being she grabbed a handful of ash and packed the wound.

Looking at her wrist plate chronograph, she could see it was early morning. She dimly recalled that something had happened maybe eight hours ago, around evening mess time.

The effect of the smoke and ash and fire made it twilight as far as she could see, but she could see enough. For at least a hundred yards, there was ruin. Tent struts, burning crates and vehicles, the shattered and burning remains of trees, superheated until the sap itself had exploded them from within. For a brief moment, Ros wondered if she was already dead and in hell.

She looked behind her, and saw the bulk of an armoured Land Rover sat amid the ash; the ‘weight’ that had been pinning her down. Looking past it, she identified the remains of the fuel dump.

The blast must have thrown the Rover into her. There was more; the ash on the ground had lain like snow, and here and there blackened bones poked through.

On some of them the fat and melted flesh still burned like candles, but worse than that, there were the shapes beneath it. She was reminded of her history lessons, and archaeological pictures from the site of the volcanic eruption at Vesuvius. She knew what those shapes were, but couldn’t bring herself to think of them as people... not yet.

Her breathing grew ragged and tears streaked her ash-smudged face, as she took in the devastation of the Le Fay Campaign forward operating base, dubbed ‘Lancelot,’ and fought the urge to scream.

In the past few months, she had spent her allotted comms time with Senior Mage Nicholaeos Westbrook, and he had reviewed the files on the implants that had, during her youth, suppressed her emotions. Through simple meditation techniques, she could now employ those implants and, with a shuddering breath, she did so, as rage and fear and remorse came upon her as swiftly as the suffocating feelings of claustrophobia had when she was pinned, in the dark, under the Land Rover. As the storm of emotion calmed, she turned her mind to the practical.

She touched her ear bead, the internal comms unit implanted in her skull just behind the ear. She could activate it at will, but touching it was a habit. It buzzed with static. No-one in range, or maybe something was blocking her signal. Perhaps, with more powerful equipment...

Taking up her helm, she stumbled through the ash and debris, making for what she hoped was the location of the communications tent. Skirting an armoured transport she found it, a dark silhouette in the smoke. Rushing up, trying not to look down at the ashen mounds that dragged at her feet, she pulled back the tent flap only to stagger away in shock.

Beyond the impregnated canvas, all that was left was a smoking hole, thirty feet across. The entrance and a few support struts were all that remained of the comms tent. The blackened crater in the ground seemed to have swallowed the rest. The station’s main antenna stood twisted and askew, pointing accusingly at the darkened sky. Rosalyn’s gaze followed it up to the ash clouds. Yes; there had been something up there, but what?

A sudden noise turned her away from the memory; howling in the distance. Hounds let loose to hunt down survivors no doubt, but she had some time yet.

Chapter 1

4 Days Ago:  Rosalyn’s comm bead beeped in her ear and the command circuit opened, informing her that she was required in the main operations tent. The King was calling. She took the time to swing by the mess tent to pick up tea, and reflected on the campaign so far.

Less than five weeks before, the assault force had made landing at Saulkrasti. She remembered that day very well. The fleet had berthed out in the bay overnight and moved to landfall at first light. Ros and her soldiers had been on one of the smaller, out-runner vessels that had swept the shoreline for signs of resistance. They had skirted Riga to the south and come across the barbarian fleet at Carnikava.

She suppressed a shudder at the memory of all those ships run aground, scuttled and abandoned at the shoreline. Smaller vessels, ragged and rusty, crushed into the sand by the larger hulks.

Ships hadn’t had ‘rigging’ for hundreds of years, but the mass of antennae and communication superstructures had caused the wind to moan and wail in the dim morning light. Her enhanced vision, optimised by her helmet’s optic systems, had even shown her the bodies in the water and washed up on the beach. Much as she was inured to violence, this casual abandonment, this floating mat of bodies in the surf, with limbs entwined as if seeking some last comfort before the end, had struck her deeply.

Since that day, the land that the Camelot army had taken, had ‘fought’ across, had seemed empty. The buildings seemed tumble-down and neglected. The people that they did see were furtive and dowdy, eking out their existence even as the tanks and trucks of Camelot rolled past them. When the logistics division set up aid stations in an effort to ‘win hearts and minds,’ the people skirted those squares and tents. They pulled down their caps and shuffled past them faster.

What battles they had were running engagements. The Norse raiders were in full flight, but the Camelot advance was hindered by traps, ambushes, roadside bombs and whole villages turned into shambling, dead-eyed servitors, waiting silently behind closed doors to burst out, rending and raving with tooth and nail. Losses were lower than projected, but progress was slow.

It was so... strange. There were no armed forces, none of the malformed beasts or soldiers from the invasion, not even civil defence or law enforcement. It was like the people were oppressed by the air itself, and all the while the rain, from pervasive drizzle to sheeting downpour, never relented. No sun, just a spectrum of cloud cover, to mist, to thick fog. It slowed down everything; transports bogged down or slid off the beaten tracks. Pitching and breaking camp became a maddening chore as the mud sucked at boots and held tight to anything left too long on the ground. Patrols took longer and couldn’t range as far in the unwelcoming conditions.

Everything. Was. Slow.

You want some tea with your sugar? A familiar voice snapped her out of her reverie.

What? she responded.

That’s about the eighth spoonful you’ve put in that cup. Something on your mind?

Oh, you know, Geoffrey... She stopped spooning sugar into the Styrofoam cup. Just thinking. I do that sometimes, unlike you. She smiled at him. Sir Geoffrey Mayland of the House of Stafford, her friend, her comrade and her lover, smiled back.

Well, not all of us can survive on our wit and charm alone, he joked. Seriously though, something up? He picked up his own cup and turned to head out of the mess tent.

Just a feeling. She took up her own sugar-filled tea and followed him through the camp. I mean, it’s not as if we’ve faced any real opposition, but we haven’t advanced as fast as we should. It’s... strange.

Geoffrey shrugged. Well, the weather hasn’t been on our side. You heard the briefings. This unseasonal rain has slowed everything down, and it doesn’t look as if the roads were ever that good to begin with.

But that shouldn’t matter, Ros countered. Yes, the rain and mist are less than ideal conditions, but it’s nothing we shouldn’t be able to handle.

Geoffrey’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. You’re right. As far as righteous campaigns against evil sorceresses and their armies go, this one’s pretty dull. He paused. You’ve got that calculating look on your face, what are you thinking?

Ros took a sip of her tea and winced at the overpowering sweetness. I’m just thinking ahead. The longer this goes on, the worse morale is going to get. The support crews are grumbling as it is, and the soldiers are bored. When they do get some action, they’ll be so eager to meet the enemy, their discipline could suffer.

Geoffrey grinned. Well, if that’s your concern, we’re headed to the right place to air it. Let’s go tell the King.

It still struck Rosalyn as they walked through forward operating base Lancelot, the soldiers of Camelot, the ‘Men at Arms,’ were prime examples of human physicality. Every soldier had submitted to chemical and biological enhancement to make them stronger, faster and better, yet still... as she moved amongst them, they were like children compared to the knights themselves. She herself was clearly a head taller than the biggest of them, and while many of the soldiers could lift a couple of hundred kilos, she could bench-press a small car. Micro-computer implants in her brain could process tactical data in a tenth of the time it took an un-enhanced brain. It still staggered her sometimes, but it made her thoughtful.

Geoffrey? she asked softly.

He had been humming tunelessly to himself as they walked. Yes? he replied.

What did you think of the memorial service, for Brandon? she asked hesitantly.

Brandon Squires had been an affable young technician assigned to their quest to retrieve Merlin from the island of Avalon. He had been killed, murdered by Morgana’s self-styled Black Knight, a brutal traitor named Sebastian Crown.

Geoffrey slowed his pace. It was... I don’t know, it was a memorial, he began, uncertainly. I mean... a posthumous knighting is little comfort to the dead.

Ros looked away. I think everyone went over and spoke to his parents. Even Merlin was respectful, but... she tailed off.

But what? Geoffrey prompted gently.

I couldn’t do it. He was my charge, my responsibility. I failed him, and then? I couldn’t even bring myself to tell his parents how brave he’d been, she said bitterly.

Geoffrey stopped and held her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes, though she tried to avoid his gaze.

We share that, he said firmly. All of us who were there. Cassie and Brandon were our support, they were supposed to be non-combatants, but that bastard Crown got the drop on us in those damned caverns, he said earnestly. We did all we could, Brandon saved Cassie. He wouldn’t want us doubting ourselves over his death. We just have to try and live up to his sacrifice, make it worth something, and you did. You ran that scumbag through. He’ll never hurt anyone else because of you.

Ros wiped a budding tear from her eye.

Thank you, she said, then sniffed and drew herself up straight.

Alright, Geoff smiled at her. Get your game face on, we’re almost there.

King Anthony Pendragon met them outside the main command tent, his golden armour spattered with mud up to the knees, pitted and scored by small arms fire, but still glowing in the weak light. He held up a hand as they approached.

Rosalyn, Geoffrey, he greeted curtly. They both came to attention. Sire, was their prompt response.

I wanted to talk with you briefly before you got inside, I don’t like dropping surprises on my knights.

Ros felt quietly proud of the possessive, encompassing statement. She suppressed a small smile as he continued.

The situation in Europe is much the same. However, with the confirmation of a source for these insurgent attacks, a ground campaign has been mobilised. Our allies are also intent on showing solidarity with Camelot, so we are receiving reinforcements. At this time, many of those contingents are still on route, but one has arrived this morning, from Rome.

Rome, Sire? Ros and Geoffrey spoke together.

A company of Templars from the Vatican itself; their rapid response force. He took a deep breath of the damp air. I would like you, Rosalyn, to act as the liaison. Work with them, keep them informed about the ongoing situation, and assess their potential usefulness. I will try and integrate them into the campaign, but I’d like to know a little more about them first. His brow furrowed thoughtfully, bringing a shadow over his fair complexion.

Rosalyn considered her reply carefully. I shall do my best, my liege, but...

Yes? Anthony prompted.

What about my... ‘heritage’? Should they discover it, it would be difficult to explain, Ros finished, downcast.

Simple; they don’t ask and you don’t tell. The King smirked. I’m willing to bet that, even if they have an idea that there’s something different about one of the knights of the table, they wouldn’t think me about to place such a knight right in front of their faces. I’d have to be some kind of imbecile. He winked, and beckoned them enter the command tent.

Dame Rosalyn Taunton Savant of Essex, he announced grandly, I present Mother Superior Bethane Sciarra, Commander of Strike Force Longinus.

Ros took a second to assess the woman turning toward her from the Ops console. She was tall (for an un-augmented human) and spare; Ros could tell because her battle dress and rigid-plate body armour was form-fitting. It was also traced here and there with gothic script, phrases in Latin; some she could read and others more obscure. As the mother superior turned to face her, Rosalyn took in her features. It wasn’t clear if her hair was close cropped or tightly gathered about her head because of the fitted service habit she wore. Her features weren’t plain, but she wasn’t exactly beautiful; handsome, Ros decided instead. Her blue-grey eyes didn’t betray a hint of emotion as she regarded Rosalyn levelly.

How do you do? the knight offered her hand to the mother superior who simply looked at it and then at her.

Your majesty, she addressed the King. I’m not sure whether to be amused or insulted.

Anthony’s expression hardened.

Explain, he demanded.

You offer this girl as our liaison, Bethane stated simply. It says little to our value in your eyes if we are assigned one of your most junior knights to work with. You might as well have a squire liaise with us.

Ros clenched her fist and a snarl escaped her lips but the King laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

Let us not play this game, mother superior, he said mildly. Your intelligence reports should have told you that milady Savant is one of only a few to be raised for actions undertaken in combat in nearly a hundred years. That she is one of the youngest ever to attain full knighthood and command should also speak to her fitness for the task. And you should know that she personally saved my life at Yarmouth, and I do not take such things lightly. Your agents in London ought to have told your masters all of these things.

A small smile flitted across Bethane’s lips but it was gone as the King spoke next.

You should also know that I know your real age. He smiled at her without mirth. But that piece of information is a gift from me to you. We are allies here, remember?

Reports can be faked. I wanted to see for myself the worth you place upon this one. I am satisfied, she said, and turned back to the console. Without offering her hand, Ros noted.

Is she always this personable? Geoffrey quipped sarcastically. With Bethane’s back to him, Anthony made an annoyed ‘cut it out’ gesture to forestall any more such comments.

They approached the map table and joined the other knights gathered there. Troop dispersal and disposition was projected over the map by a compact hologram projector. Anthony waved his hand over the image and it zoomed out to show a larger view.

It has taken us five weeks to progress barely two hundred and twenty miles, he stated. We are currently securing a route through or around the settlement locally known as Pushkinsky Gory, in an attempt to follow the raider force. However, poor conditions and the necessary precautions against ambush and enemy actions have hampered our progress, as much as our antiquated knowledge of the terrain, topography and dispersal of population centres, the King gestured to the large blank spaces on the map. That said, what little resistance we have faced has been sporadic and paltry, but the time spent securing our chain of re-supply and scouting for more substantial knowledge of our surroundings is also hindering our advance. Anthony paused a moment and looked at the grim, dissatisfied faces around the map table.

I know you are all eager to repay the insult that has been offered us, and to pay on the debt of random slaughter our enemy has wrought upon us and our allies, but we must err on the side of caution, at least until we have greater forces to bring to bear in this attempt. Make no mistake, I intend to cut the head from this snake, and have this legacy of tyranny consigned to history where it belongs.

The warriors assembled at the table murmured their grudging consent, and Ros felt again the twinge of unease at the whole situation.

My liege, she ventured, I do not doubt the discipline of our forces, but even they cannot persist in this maddening waiting game. They need something to relieve their frustration. The longer this malaise of inaction persists, the greater the danger of recklessness when we do, finally, confront the enemy. She was heartened by a general murmur of agreement and caught, what she felt, was an approving look on the face of Bethane.

So what would you suggest? Anthony countered mildly. I cannot conjure the enemy from this pervasive mist. I cannot make battle come to us. Let me hear your words, Dame Rosalyn.

Ros took a steadying breath. Even now, the thought of suggesting strategy to her monarch was a daunting prospect.

Allow me to take a portion of our forces. My own troops, the Templars, Stafford and York, and thrust forward. Perhaps a more aggressive approach will goad our enemy, draw them to us and, at the least, allow our warriors to take the edge off their frustrations.

Anthony's brow furrowed a moment as he gave this some thought before he nodded his assent. Time to poke the viper's nest, he said grimly.

Duke Jerome Grayson; traitor, monster, dabbed delicately at the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

Satisfied, he brutally cast the limp body of his meal aside and retracted his elongated canines. Supping elegantly from a silver chalice as the pathetic remains were dragged away, he ran his graceful fingers through his silver hair.

His mind flitted back to Yarmouth and the knight, all in black, who had grabbed him by those very locks and dragged him away from delivering the final blow to King Anthony Pendragon.

Some distance away, the knight had cast him to the ground and, when he looked up, it was to see the point of a blade as clear and bright as polished silver unwavering a hairsbreadth from his face.

You are beaten, the knight declared in a voice like distant thunder, but death shall not find you this day. It is more than you deserve. So go. Return to your mistress and suffer her wrath, before you finally suffer mine.

Jerome had known the army was in full rout. Had known that Launde, the brutish enforcer of Morgana le Fay, was dead, and he had known, as much as it galled him to accept it, that the very attack itself was a baited hook to provoke reprisal. This did not ease the burn of defeat or make his current situation any easier to swallow, and so he had fled and suffered for the failure to return his mistress’s favoured plaything alive. Even with the magic coursing through his veins, he still hurt from her ‘ministrations,’ and now he must bow to her again.

Closing his eyes, he opened his mind and reached out. As his awareness touched the other, he was suddenly awash with hunger, lust and the press of hot bodies. He found the clammy, cloying sensation of sweaty coupling repugnant, but he persevered.

Mistress. His voice was a whisper within his campaign tent, but it echoed through the void.

What do you want, Jerome? Morgana appeared before his mind’s eye, her nakedness and obvious arousal a tool that she used often to cause him unease. It had better be important for you to interrupt my sport.

Our spies say a contingent of Camelot soldiers have broken off from the main body. They head for Velikiye Luki in order to goad us.

Well? I have laid down the plan, it is up to you to enact it, you blood-sucking moron! The image of the slight, red-headed woman shimmered and, for a second, something terrible took its place.

Jerome growled and bridled at the insult, but Morgana held out a hand. I made you, remember? Show me such disrespect again and I will unmake you. One piece at a time. She held him in place a moment before throwing her head back in a chiming, silvery laugh. In truth, be as disrespectful as you wish. The punishment it forces me to enact upon you is one of the highlights of my day, she smiled sweetly.

These games of yours grow tiresome, m’lady, Jerome hissed.

Give it a few centuries Jerome, you’ll find that these ‘games’ are the only way to pass the time. But, I sense your impatience. You are the military tactician, Jerome. Counter this thrust, drive it back, leave it be or make it disappear in the mists, I don’t care. Just make sure they’re all in one place for my little... surprise.

The sense of bodily pleasure took on an edge. Pain and terror started to seep in and Morgana’s image was suddenly splashed in rich, arterial blood.

Now, my fun is getting to the best part so, if we’re done? her tone suggested strongly that this had better be the case.

My Queen, Jerome intoned, and let the link fail. If only you could see what is coming, he murmured darkly.

Chapter 2

Numbers. The world was numbers.

Ones and zeroes filled Cassie’s perception but within them she saw the patterns, the pictures, the information, all rendered down to ones and zeroes.

It took a few moments (hours it seemed, within the data stream) but she started to get the feeling that someone was trying to get her attention.

Gently she extricated her mind from the Info-net and returned her awareness to her office.

Her office. It sounded impossible to her even now. Just months ago she had been a hacker, a trespasser in the digital domain of the M.A.G.E.s, Merlin's cult of mechanical and genetic engineers. Then she had been caught, imprisoned and transported to Camelot.

Now here she was, a Senior Acolyte in the ranks of the cult, and personally tasked with restoring what files had been damaged, corrupted or partially erased in the treachery, the schism just those short months ago.

More than that, she was an emissary to those who still did what she used to.

After the majority of the senior mages defected to the side of Morgana le Fay, the cult was left grievously understaffed. Cassie had been tasked with approaching the most talented of her competition and convincing them of the danger that loomed on the horizon, and bringing them into the fold.

Some came, ready to bring their expertise and ideas to the secretive agency. Others took some persuading and were still uneasy about their new positions. Still more refused outright, their paranoia or personal agenda too much of a barrier. These ones disappeared into the shadows shortly after, and Cassie let them go.

All