Son of a Pitch Entry: The Pendragon's Son

Title: THE PENDRAGON'S SON
Age and Genre: YA Fantasy
Word Count: 99,000

Query:

 When Excalibur is stolen, King Arthur’s son, Prince Vaeldhei, embarks on a quest to reclaim it and thwart his misguided half-brother Mordred from killing their father and igniting a countrywide war. 

A grim prophecy predicts the fall of Camelot and none dare oppose it, except for the prince, who is determined to protect his family. But Vaeldhei has never left the protection of his mentor, Merlin, before and attempting to alter fate is a fool’s errand.

Though the brothers were once friends, Mordred’s mind has been warped by his mother, a vengeful sorceress who has convinced him that his father and brother are his true enemies. Consumed by her lies, Mordred breaks ties with Vaeldhei and helps steal the legendary Excalibur, leaving the kingdom without its holy protection.

As Vaeldhei struggles to recover the holy sword and reclaim his brother from the sorceress’s clutches, Camelot is on the brink of a deadly war. The prophecy is nearing its fulfillment. If Vaeldhei cannot unite his broken family, he will have to assemble an army to protect all he loves, even if it means fighting against his own brother.

First 250 Words:

As I hurried down the castle’s vast stone corridor to meet my half-brother for the first time, his name echoed around me, whispered like a curse: Mordred.

The arrival of my brother—a youth who made the great fortress of Camelot resound with fear―made me feel more energized than I had in years. Finally. Finally. I had a brother. Family. Surely he would not shun me as the others had. Surely he would understand what it meant to be an outcast in one’s own family. I had to see him.

I approached the vaulted doorway of the Great Hall. Straightening, I walked toward the raised dais, careful to keep my pace steady though my legs urged me forward.

Faster, faster, faster!

No. A prince must always be calm and collected. My muscles strained, but I reigned in my eagerness.

The dais seemed so far away.

I passed by the gathered knights and soldiers in an agonizingly slow manner. Most paid me no heed, too absorbed in gossiping about my brother.

One said in a trembling voice, “It’s the prophecy! It won’t let him die, not until he slays the king and rains death on Camelot!”

“Vermin never did die easy,” another said with a sneer.

“That cowardly wretch.” A soldier with a scar on his face leaned forward, scoffing. “Curse him and his witch mother to the depths of hell.”

I bit my tongue, trying to ignore their disgraceful ignorance. Such disrespect. All over an unfounded—and unreliable—prophecy made decades ago.