Free Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) by Adam Copeland Page A

introduction, preface...” began Wolfgang, reading out loud the mission statement of Greensprings in a long dry manner. He turned the page, and without looking up, continued in monotone a verbalization of the next verse of the Creed . Page after page this continued, and the fighting men gathered in the amphitheater began to fidget.
    Just when von Fiescher was starting to show some sign of animation (he was starting to delve into the exciting topic of Avangarde being soldiers of the spirit…or some such) he paused for a moment and looked out from underneath his bushy eyebrows into the audience of assembled men. Patrick, as well as everyone else, looked in the same direction. The red headed Highlander, Jason McFowler, sat with his hand in the air.
    “Yes, McFowler. You have a question?”
    “I did not quite get all that. Could you repeat it?” he said. Laughter erupted in the auditorium, and the place was alive.
    When the noise had died down, Wolfgang looked sternly at the Highlander. “We will have none of that. You have been through this many times, but we must all go through the same experiences to form a kinship that bonds this order together. And I mean all experiences.”
    With that, McFowler rolled his eyes, grabbed up his kilt, chewed on it, and leaned his head on the neighboring knight's shoulder.
    Laughter erupted in the room again.
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    None of his mother’s churchgoing or schooling had prepared him for the Greensprings sense of discipline. When there was no study, there was mass to attend. They listened for hours to Father Hugh Constant give homilies that illustrated the necessity to not only defend the Guests from worldly harm, but from spiritual danger as well. To truly be soldiers of God.
    Patrick shook his head over the notion. He had seen first hand in the Holy Lands what “soldiers of God” were capable of doing. He still believed in God, but he no longer claimed to understand Him.
    In two weeks, he did a lot of sitting and listening, and it was driving him mad. By the look of it, he was not alone. At each day’s end, the group of stalwart knights was edgy and exhausted. The veterans, taking it blow by blow like everyone else, slept in the auditorium. Most were startled into wakefulness by von Fiescher and a long wooden pole, but many, like Jason McFowler, were left undisturbed. It seemed that Wolfgang had his favorites.
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    “Humility!” shouted Wolfgang von Fiescher one morning from the battlement walls surrounding the courtyard. “Humble before God and each other. This will make you a better knight as well as a person. Trust me!” Wolfgang laughed wickedly.
    The Avangardesmen were on their hands and knees, dressed in simple clothing, washing the courtyard cobblestones with hand brushes. They were performing all manner of menial labor unbecoming to noblemen. They were roused early every morning and herded like cattle into the dining hall where they ate a quick meal prepared by the servants. Then it was their turn in the kitchens to cook under the servants’ supervision. Then, to the great dismay of the Greensprings staff, they were served half-burnt or undercooked meals by Avangardesmen who were covered in flour and soot.
    Avangardesmen painted, pounded nails, piled and mortared stones, and washed linens in the fountain with their pant legs rolled up while maidservants pointed and giggled.
    Each night the men went to bed exhausted, wondering what they had gotten themselves into, and were roused what seemed only moments later to do it all over again.
    Despite the hours, the knights rarely went to bed right away but stayed up and recounted their “war” stories about the chores that they had to perform that day, and complained pitifully about the ones they were to do the next. But social or personal differences began to melt away in the torrent of labor, as Wolfgang von Fiescher looked on.
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    “Heave-ho, boys!” the portly Father Hugh Constant cried. His voice echoed in the