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>> Knights of the Morningstar Melanie Rawn Summary from Backcover: A LEAPER IN SHINING ARMOR When the blue light fades after his latest Leap, Dr. Sam Beckett finds himself wielding a sword - and facing a man in full armor! No, Sam hasn't leaped into the court of King Arthur. He's jousting his way through a medieval recreation group, battling for the hand of a fair lady. But swordfighting isn't the only challenge Sam faces. A sinister new player has entered the game. Someone who threatens not only the Project, but Sam's life as well ... ISBN: 0-441-00092-4 (USA) Copyright: 1994 Printing History: Ace edition/September 1994 Pages: 212 Cover Art: Keith Birdsong Dedication: For QL fans who, like me, refuse to believe that Sam never returned home. And for Scott Bakula and Dean Stockwell - who made the series so easy on the eyes ... Author's Note: Although the terms "timeline" and "Quantum Leap" are pretty much mutually exclusive, a word is necessary for continuity's sweet sake. This story takes place after "Deliver us from Evil" and before "Return/Revenge." Place: medieval tournament place near Manhattan, New York Leap-date: Saturday, July 11, 1987 Leapee's Name: Philip Larkin (aka Sir Percival of York) Excerpt: Time and reality coalesced again. His body and brain stopped ringing. And he felt his right arm sag with the weight of something heavy gripped in his fingers. He blinked, and shifted his shoulders, and lifted his hand. The arm wore gleaming chain mail. The hand wore a battered leather gauntlet. The fingers held a long, shining sword. He heard a thunk that could have been his jaw dropping. He looked down. From its place propped between his elbow and hip, a silvery helmet sporting a green plume had fallen to the ground. The sword sank again to his side. Disappoint (not home, not by a long shot) was swept away in a flash flood of intense curiosity and equally intense confusion. When? Where? Who? Why? Strongest of all was the urgent need to do and say the right things - or at least to avoid the wrong things until those four essential questions were answered. When was usually the toughest, so he deferred it. (Besides, he didn't much like the implications of that chain mail.) Where was usually the easiest; all he needed to do was look. So he did. And gulped. All around him was a sylvan glade awash in summer sunshine and medival splendor. Multicolored pennants, some plain and some bearing coat of arms, fluttered in a warm breeze. Jugglers in court-jester outfits and minstrels in motley, ladies fair in flowing garb, roving merchants hawking their wares, squires carrying swords and shields, knights in chain mail - the whole woodland scene positively reeked chivalric panoply circa 1450 or so. The only thing missing was a castle atop a hill. He flinched as a roar sounded from somewhere beyond the screening trees. Cheers and applause - at least he hadn't Leaped into the middle of a battle, he thought with relief, and instantly felt like a fool. Did any of these people look worried? They were having a great time - all except for the guy crouched over there cranking a rotisserie, on which what looked like an entire cow revolved slowly over the fire pit. The sensation of idiocy increased as he heard several metallic crashes behind him. Turning, he beheld a hewn-log sawhorse against which shields, swords, and lances had been propped until his startled reaction to the cheers had knocked them over. He busied himself picking them up. They clattered again when someone yelled, "Sir Percival? Sir Percival of York!" Sam had the uncanny - and sinking - feeling that Sir Percival was none other than him. A herald he could only be: rolled-up scrolls protruded like wayward feathers from his purple tunic, a brass hunting horn dangled from his belt, and a golden crown badge of royal service was stitched on his velvet-covered chest. "Sir Percival! You joust next against Lord Ranulf." The herald pointed. Nearby, a knight warmed up his fighting muscles by taking swipes at the air with his sword. Lord Rannulf was six feet four inches and 225 pounds of solid sinew in glinting chain mail. Conan the Antiquarian. He looked able to crush skulls singlehandedly. A mighty swing of the blade turned him in Sam's direction. Their gazes met. His lordship grinned. All Sam could manage was a feeble, "Oh, boy." |