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Chapter 62
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 03:33:10 +0000 UTCCamelot had everything it needed to host such a tournament, so after I made my way back to the castle, and informed Agravain of my intention, it didn’t take long before everything was ready.
It could have been even sooner, if I hadn’t wanted a few weeks of time for people to get tickets for the event. After all, it wouldn’t be fair if all my people didn’t have at least a chance to witness the festivities.
And now, everyone who wished to come and see it in person had had their chance. Plenty wouldn’t be able to, given the limited number of seats, but at least they would get to watch from home.
The tournament grounds of Camelot had never been so alive. The banners of my Knights swayed in the wind, and the colors of Albion reflected in the sea of spectators that filled the grandstands.
The anticipation in the air was almost electric, as thousands of voices merged into an excited hum, waiting for the moment it all begins.
From upon the royal balcony, my gaze swept over the arena below. Down there, my knights, all of them, stood proudly. Their armor polished to perfection, their backs as straight as their swords.
And then A voice like a thunderclap rolled over the tournament grounds.
"LADIES! GENTLEMEN! BRAVE WARRIORS AND NOBLE SPECTATORS! IT IS TIME!"
I turned my head slightly, unsurprised to see Brian Blessed standing tall upon the commentator’s platform, arms spread wide, his extravagant cloak billowing with every exaggerated movement.
He had insisted upon an outfit as grand as his voice—deep royal blues with golden embroidery, and, of course, a belt so thick it could be mistaken for a siege engine’s strap.
"TODAY, WE BEAR WITNESS TO A SPECTACLE UNSEEN FOR CENTURIES! A TOURNAMENT OF HONOR, OF SKILL, AND OF SHEER, BLOODY DETERMINATION!"
The crowd exploded into cheers, fists pumping into the air. Even some of the knights below shifted excitedly, their helmets gleaming in the midday sun.
"GATHERED BEFORE YOU ARE THE FINEST KNIGHTS, WARRIORS, AND CHAMPIONS OF LEGEND. EACH READY TO PROVE THEIR METTLE, EACH HUNGRY FOR GLORY!"
I had to admit, he knew what he was doing, not just the spectators, but even my knights, and I felt excited due to his words.
"BUT MAKE NO MISTAKE!" Blessed’s voice bellowed once more. "THIS IS NOT SOME MERE SHOW OF PAGEANTRY! NO! THIS IS A TEST OF STRENGTH! OF SKILL! OF WILL! FOR THIS TOURNAMENT, BY ROYAL DECREE, SHALL SHOWCASE THE MIGHT OF THE ROUND TABLE.”
I exhaled slowly. My breath hit the inside of my helm. I pushed off the armrests of my seat, stood up, and took a step forward, resting my hands on the balcony railing.
Blessed turned toward me now, his arms raised high in grand, theatrical flair.
"AND NOW—BEFORE WE BEGIN—IT IS ONLY FITTING THAT WE TURN OUR EYES TO THE ONE WHO HAS MADE THIS ALL POSSIBLE! THE VERY HEART OF CAMELOT! THE KING WHO HAS RETURNED TO LEAD ALBION INTO A NEW ERA! PEOPLE OF THE REALM, RAISE YOUR VOICES FOR HIS MAJESTY, THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING—ARTHURIA PENDRAGON!"
The sheer roar of the crowd was deafening. It rolled through the stands like thunder, a wave of applause, cheers, and exultation.
I was amazed at the reaction he was getting from the crowd. I knew well that there were plenty of people who didn’t like me, who didn’t yet fully approve of me.
Yet, clearly, Brian Blessed was able to make them all forget about that. Truly the voice of God.
Gazing over the thousands who had gathered—citizens of Albion, visitors from distant lands, warriors who had come to test themselves under the banner of chivalry.
I lifted a gauntleted hand, and the noise slowly quieted, anticipation thick in the air.
“My people,” I began, my voice carrying across the grounds. “Today is not a day of war. It is not a day of politics. It is not a day of division.” I let the words settle before continuing.
“Today is a day of celebration. One where my knights act not of duty but desire, a desire to prove themselves, to show off their strength, their valor! To show their worth and earn honor! To test their mettle, their skill, and their resolve.”
My gaze swept across my knights, standing ready to get up front and center. “I know my Knights, I know their skills, their resolve, and their worth. Yet to you, they are stories, legends; today, you too shall see their worth!”
The crowd erupted once more, voices cheering, chanting, calling the names of legends that had, until now, only been figures of myth and history.
Below stood my knights—the chosen few, the Round Table’s finest, the pinnacle of chivalry and strength.
Each of them was a legend in their own right, and today, their prowess would be displayed before all of Albion.
I took a steady breath before raising my voice once more. "Let all here witness the might of my Round Table! Let this tournament be a test of strength, skill, and honor! Let it be a display of what it means to be a knight of Albion!"
I lowered my hand, and with that, the tournament had begun.
Brian Blessed’s voice boomed once more, brimming with sheer, uncontainable enthusiasm.
“AND WITH THOSE WORDS FROM OUR KING, I SAY WE REJOICE! FOR WE BEGIN WITH THE GREATEST TEST OF PRECISION, GRACE, AND RAW BLOODY TALENT—THE ARCHERY CONTEST!"
A roar of cheers and applause filled the air as squires and attendants moved across the grounds, setting up the targets. They started at reasonable distances, lined in perfect rows, but beyond them, smaller, more distant ones could be seen.
Blessed continued, his voice rising in excitement.
"THE BOW IS THE WEAPON OF HUNTERS AND WARRIORS ALIKE! TO DRAW IT REQUIRES STRENGTH! TO AIM IT REQUIRES JUDGMENT! AND TO LOSE IT TRUE REQUIRES NOTHING LESS THAN PURE, UNYIELDING FOCUS!
AND WHO HERE, I ASK YOU, WHO AMONG THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE POSSESSES SUCH TALENT?"
The crowd roared, anticipation thick in the air.
"LET US MEET OUR ARCHERS! OUR CHAMPIONS! OUR LEGENDS!"
The first knight stepped forward, clad in bright silver and black, his multi-string bow in hand. A long white cloak with a red inner lining and grey fur neck. He wore a hood, hiding his face but showing off his long red hair.
"FIRST! A MAN OF TRAGEDY, OF LAMENTS SUNG AND TALES SPUN—YET DO NOT THINK FOR A MOMENT THAT THIS SORROWFUL KNIGHT LACKS STRENGTH! FOR HE WHO LAMENTS, LAMENTS FOR HIS FALLEN FOES! BEHOLD—THE UNMATCHED MARKSMAN—SIR TRISTAN OF LYONESSE!"
Tristan said nothing; he was never one for many words. And this was no exception, he threw off the long cloak and took his position.
Nocking an arrow and drawing back the bowstring in a smooth, practiced motion.
The crowd hushed.
The arrow flew like lightning, striking dead center—a perfect shot.
Cheers erupted, but Blessed was far from finished.
"HA! A FINE SHOT! A PERFECT SHOT! BUT WHO WOULD EXPECT ANY LESS FROM A KNIGHT WHO COULD HEAR A BIRD'S SONG FROM A MILE AWAY? BUT HE SHALL NOT STAND ALONE IN THIS TRIAL!"
The next knight approached, her gold-trimmed armor catching the sunlight, her confidence undeniable.
"NEXT! A LADY OF TRUE KNIGHTLY HEART, THE BRIGHTEST STAR OF ORKNEY—A WARRIOR OF UNSHAKEABLE RESOLVE! NEVER TO BE UNDERESTIMATED, NEVER TO BE OUTMATCHED! I GIVE YOU—SIR GARETH THE PURE!"
Gareth took her place, rolling her shoulders as she lifted her bow. She exhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing, before she let the arrow fly—striking just beside Tristan’s, close enough that the shafts nearly touched.
Another thunderous cheer erupted.
"OH, A SHOT OF PURE HONOR! A SHOT TO SHAKE THE HEAVENS THEMSELVES! BUT CAN ANY SURPASS THIS DISPLAY?"
The next knight strode forward, his stance unwavering, his bow gripped tightly in his powerful hands.
"NOW COMES A MAN WHOSE VERY NAME SHAKES THE FOUNDATIONS OF THIS REALM! A KNIGHT OF GREAT STRENGTH, YET GREATER HEART! ONE WHO STANDS AS THE SHIELD OF THE ROUND TABLE! SIR BEDIVERE!"
Bedivere’s expression remained calm and focused as he drew back the bowstring. The release was swift and certain, his arrow striking cleanly within the center ring—not as flawless as Tristan’s, but a shot worthy of recognition.
The crowd shouted in approval, though Blessed merely laughed heartily.
"AH, A SHOT OF STRENGTH! A SHOT OF HONOR! YET THE CONTEST CONTINUES, MY FRIENDS! FOR WHO STANDS NEXT? WHO SHALL RAISE THEIR BOW AND CHALLENGE THESE MARKSMEN?"
And then, with a swagger only he could manage, the next knight stepped forward—a familiar bull-horned helmet on her head, confidence radiating from every motion.
"AND NOW! OH, NOW, WE HAVE A KNIGHT WHO NEEDS NO INTRODUCTION—BUT I SHALL GIVE HIM ONE ANYWAY! A WARRIOR WHO EMBRACES BATTLE WITH A HEART OF FURY, A WARRIOR WHO LAUGHS IN THE FACE OF DANGER, WHO CHARGES HEADLONG INTO PERIL, NOT WITH FEAR, BUT WITH A CHALLENGE! BEHOLD! THE SCOURGE OF FOOLS! THE PRINCE OF REBELLION! SIR MORDRED!"
The cheering reached its peak, though a few boos also echoed through the arena—likely from those who still held grudges against Mordred’s more… infamous history. Not to mention her role in the many military deaths.
Mordred, of course, only grinned wider, rolling his shoulders as he took his bow.
“Let’s make this interesting,” he muttered, drawing the string back without even looking at the target. He loosed the arrow casually, lazily—yet it struck home, dead center.
The audience gasped, while Blessed let out a mighty guffaw.
"OH! OH, DO YOU SEE IT, MY FRIENDS? DO YOU SEE THE DEVIL MAY CARE SPIRIT OF THIS YOUNG LION? BUT EVEN HE MUST KNOW— THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING!”
Brian Blessed clapped his hands together, the sound like a small explosion through the magically amplified speakers.
"OH, YOU THINK THAT WAS SOMETHING, DO YOU?! HA! BUT THE ROUND TABLE HOLDS NO LACK OF LEGENDS! LET US NOT WASTE A MOMENT MORE! WHO STANDS NEXT TO TEST THEIR SKILL?!"
Sir Lancelot du Lac strode forward, his movements calm, measured, perfect. He held his bow with the same effortless confidence he would hold a sword. No hesitation. No wasted movement. He drew, aimed, loosed—and the arrow whistled through the air, embedding itself dead center.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE KNIGHT OF THE LAKE DOES NOT DISAPPOINT!" Blessed bellowed.
The crowd erupted again.
Sir Gawain followed, his strong frame shifting slightly as he tested the weight of his bow. The sun had not yet reached its peak, but even so, his presence felt empowered. With a deep breath, he released his shot, the sheer force behind it splintering the very wood of the target upon impact.
The crowd gasped before roaring in approval.
"BY THE SUN ITSELF! SIR GAWAIN SHOWS THAT EVEN THE BOW IS NOT BEYOND HIS MIGHT!"
Sir Agravain stepped forward next, his stance stiff yet disciplined, his expression unreadable. Unlike the others, his shot was not flourished or boastful—it was deliberate, precise, cold. The arrow struck home, just beside the center, perfectly calculated.
"A SHOT OF PURE STRATEGY! NO MOVEMENT WASTED! NO ERROR ALLOWED! THIS IS THE CRAFTSMANSHIP OF SIR AGRAVAIN!"
Sir Percival, towering and steadfast, approached with a gentle, almost thoughtful air. His bow looked comically small in his massive hands, yet when he fired, the sheer force behind the shot caused the target to shake violently.
"AH, A SHOT OF MIGHT! NONE CAN QUESTION THE POWER OF SIR PERCIVAL!" Blessed boomed.
Sir Galahad, in contrast, moved like a whisper in the wind. His form was almost unnatural in its perfection, his arrow flying with graceful precision, striking directly at the heart of the target.
The cheers rang out before Blessed even needed to comment.
"BEHOLD THE HOLIEST OF KNIGHTS! EVEN IN ARCHERY, HE IS UNSHAKABLE!"
Sir Kay took his place next, looking somewhat annoyed to even be participating. Still, he drew back his bowstring with obvious strength, his shot shattering the outer ring of the target as he grumbled under his breath.
Blessed, of course, found this hilarious.
"HAH! NOT EVEN A BOW CAN SURVIVE THE FURY OF SIR KAY!"
Sir Bedivere, now returning for his second attempt, remained calm and composed. His shot sailed true, once more striking cleanly within the center ring.
"A MAN OF LOYALTY, A MAN OF STEADY HAND—BEHOLD SIR BEDIVERE, A KNIGHT OF DISCIPLINE!"
With a calm breath and measured stance, Gareth’s arrow flew true, striking the exact center of the target, landing dead-on, without the slightest hesitation.
“THE ONLY WOMAN ON THE ROUND TABLE, BUT NO LESS GREAT—SIR GARETH PROVES HER WORTH!” Blessed roared.
A hunter of beasts, Palamedes did not waver. His shot, fired with the precision of a seasoned predator, pierced the very heart of the mark, splitting no arrow—only air itself.
“A TRUE WARRIOR OF THE DESERT! A MARKSMAN WITHOUT PEER!”
The next knight stepped up, he raised his bow with a knight’s discipline—no waste, no flourish—only raw, precise focus. The arrow snapped into the bullseye, as if it had been called there by fate itself.
“THE WILDERNESS KNIGHT STRIKES TRUE! UNYIELDING AS THE LAND HE CALLS HOME!”
Careful, measured—Bors was a knight of honor and patience. And his shot, released with the calm certainty of an unshakable will, found the center without error.
“A BASTION OF VIRTUE! HIS ARROW KNOWS NO DOUBT!”
Ector was next.
He was older than the rest, a man of wisdom, not of reckless youth. And yet, the moment his arrow loosed, age meant nothing—for his shot landed just as perfectly as the rest. The crowd cheered wildly at the man who raised a king.
“THE HAND THAT SHAPED A LEGEND STILL HOLDS STEADY! TRULY, A MASTER OF OLD!”
Lamorak was not one for wasted movement. His stance was firm and confident. The bow bent, the string sang, and the arrow soared—finding the bullseye with effortless grace.
“THE FURY OF A STORM, YET AS PRECISE AS LIGHTNING!”
With calm certainty, he took his shot. Not flashy, not rushed, but undeniably perfect. Another dead-center shot, and another roar from the crowd.
“LOYAL, STEADFAST, UNBREAKABLE! SIR GAHERIS SHOWS HIS STRENGTH!”
Sir Dagonet, the jester-knight, grinned wildly, flipping the bow in an unnecessary flourish before losing his arrow without looking. The crowd gasped—only for the arrow to land perfectly in the bullseye, alongside the rest.
“AHAHA! TRULY, EVEN THE FOOL CAN MATCH KINGS!” Blessed bellowed in laughter.
I had expected nothing else from my superhuman knights. Each one hitting the target with ease, yet it was also the easiest target, it would only get harder from here, though I had no doubt about who would win in the end.
This wasn’t much of a test, all of them skilled, yet only one stood apart, only one was an archer.
I turned toward Blessed, giving him a slight nod. He caught the signal instantly, his booming voice once more shaking the very air of the arena.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! YOU HAVE WITNESSED THE FIRST TEST—A DISPLAY OF PRECISION, DISCIPLINE, AND THE UNMATCHED MASTERY OF THE ROUND TABLE! BUT TELL ME—DO YOU THINK THIS IS WHERE WE END?!”
The crowd erupted into cheers and cries of "NO!", their energy crackling like a storm waiting to break.
Blessed spread his arms wide, his theatrical presence commanding every eye upon him.
“WE HAVE MANY MORE TARGETS WITHOUT ARROWS STICKING OUT OF THEM. SO LET US RAISE THE CHALLENGE, FOR THESE KNIGHTS KNOW NOT THE MEANING OF LIMITATION!”
