Free Dragonheart by Charles Edward POGUE Page A

third stanza with a piercing, declamatory wail that caused Bowen, eating Roman style, to jolt up from his reclining position.
“Ohhhh, Avalon! Bright Avalon! End my soul’s dismay.
Return forgotten glories that once held noble sway.
And sweep the world’s dank darkness away, away, away!”
    Gilbert looked at his audience expectantly. Bowen settled back on his elbow and gnawed at his meat joint. Gilbert gobbled greedily on his own, squatting by the fire and still waiting for a reaction. Only the crackling of the flame and the stream rushing over the pebbled shore where they camped held back the silence of the night . . . the fire, the stream, and the smacking of their lips as they chewed their mutton. Finally, Gilbert could stand it no longer.
    “Well, what do you think?”
    “Your mutton is very good . . .” Bowen threw his bone in the fire and picked up his shield. Laying it in his lap. he resumed sewing on his latest dragon talon with a piece of thick leather cord. “Avalon is a fable, priest.”
    This ruffled Gilbert’s ego. One could dispute the merits of his poetry, but not of his research.
    “A fable? That’s uneducated piffle, Bowen,” Gilbert snorted haughtily, and went to his saddle packs, scrounging through a plethora of parchment. “I can prove it. I have it right here . . . somewhere here . . . Never mind, I quote from memory: ‘Arthur unto the vale of Avalon was swept, to lie among his brother knights in a grove of stone upon a tor.’ From the venerable history of Gildas the Scribe. Facts, my friend, facts! Avalon is a holy place. And my pilgrimage a sacred duty. I will find it.”
    “And when you do?” Bowen cocked an eyebrow, intrigued. It was the first time in two days’ travel together that the knight had actually shown more than polite interest in anything. Gilbert realized that his plans to draw the fellow out had somehow gone awry. It wasn’t that Bowen was an unpleasant or even a reticent companion. It was just that he had a disarming knack for deflecting the conversation away from himself and inquiring about Gilbert’s opinions. And the problem with that was that Gilbert had opinions. And he was never reluctant to express them. After all, he was a man of letters and learning. It’s what he did. And while it was flattering to be listened to—and Bowen was a very good listener, which made expounding on things all the easier—he had learned nothing of the knight’s history.
    But now they were getting to it. He’d finally hit upon a subject the lad seemed inclined to open up on, providing Gilbert led him into it properly.
    “What will I do?” The answer struck Gilbert as obvious. “I will pray to the souls of all the sainted men buried there—Arthur and all the knights of the Round Table!”
    “It is said not only Arthur lies at Avalon, but also Anwnn—Gateway to the Underworld.” Bowen tossed his shield aside and stretched out on the ground, pillowing his head on his saddle. “So be careful, priest. The spirits you call may come.”
    “Would they might and with them bring back the days of chivalry and the Old Code.”
    “No prayers can resurrect that pale ghost.” Bowen’s voice was laced with wistful melancholy. He pulled a blanket over him and stared into the fire. “Good night, priest.”
    Gilbert sighed. He had lost him. “Good night, priest” definitely signaled the end of the conversation. But Gilbert had caught the regret in Bowen’s tone. The reflected flame had exposed the desolation in the knight’s eyes.
    “Ride with me, my son,” Gilbert gently implored, scooting closer. “All knights need a quest. I think ours is the same.”
    “Men of faith may follow a fable, priest,” came the hollow reply. “But my only faith is my sword arm . . . And besides, I already have a quest.”
    “What quest?”
    “To slay all dragons . . . And one, in particular . . .”
    The soft sorrow in Bowen’s face had fled. Firelight flickered across his hardened