Legend

XVII

It was a mild winter, for which Donnchadh and Gwalcmai were grateful, as they spent most of it traveling. I For the first couple of months they found no sign of the absent Watcher, the Grail, or Excalibur. Upon one occasion they were accosted by bandits, and Gwalcmai, in the course of dispatching the ignorant souls, suffered a wound serious enough to warrant a return to Stonehenge and regeneration of a new body for his personality and memories to be implanted into. That caused a delay of another couple of months.

Thus it was early summer before they began to search to the west, tracking down rumors of a powerful king who wielded a magical sword. They traveled along the southern coast of England and were in a small fishing village having a meal in the local inn when they heard something that caught their attention.

“This bloody bastard crucifies people. Not in the way those Christians have their cross, but on an X — two poles stuck into the ground and crossing each other.”

The speaker was a man dressed in the garb of one who made his living from the sea. His audience was the bored woman, old beyond her years, who ran the inn.

“Who is this you speak of?” Gwalcmai brusquely demanded, swinging around on his stool and facing the speaker.

The man was startled at this abrupt response to his comment. Donnchadh moved between the two and placed a piece of silver on the wood plank table in front of the man. “We’d like to know more about this,” she said in a low voice.

The silver was already in the man’s pocket. He looked at the two of them. “I just came from across the channel. This man, he’s raising an army there. Word is he’s going to cross the channel this summer and invade.”

“His name?” Donnchadh asked.

“He calls himself Mordred.”

“Have you seen him?” she pressed.

“I didn’t want to see him,” the man said. “I seen what he done to folks that opposed him. As I was telling the keep, here. Crucifies them. And not with nails but with wet leather. Who ever heard of that? It dries and squeezes the life out of the poor fellows.”

“This Mordred is local?” Gwalcmai demanded.

The fisherman shook his head. “No. That’s not what they say. He’s got this group of warriors with him — they do whatever he says without question. He’s recruiting local knights to fight with him. To come over here and invade. Those who oppose him, he crucifies.”

Gwalcmai ran a hand over the stubble on his chin as he contemplated this information.

“Like flies to manure,” Donnchadh muttered, which earned her surprised looks from both her husband and the fisherman. “You said this Mordred will be coming over the channel with his army in late summer?”

“He’d have to — to beat the fall storms,” the man said.

Donnchadh threw another piece of silver down and indicated for Gwalcmai to follow her outside. They exited the tavern into a light downpour, another typical day in England.

“Who the hell is this Mordred?” Gwalcmai asked as he pulled up his hood.

“Most likely a Shadow,” Donnchadh said.

“Then who is this Arthur who has the sword? The Watcher?”

Donnchadh shook her head. “I’d say another Shadow. One Aspasia’s, one Artad’s. They’re not breaking the truce outright, but they are looking after their interests, and it is in their interest to make sure the Grail and Excalibur are under control.”

“Which is which?”

Donnchadh shrugged. “Does it matter?” She tapped Gwalcmai on the chest. “You go to Arthur. Join his force. I’ll cross the channel and look up this Mordred.”

“He’s crucifying people,” Gwalcmai noted.

“Yes, but every war leader needs a seer. A sorceress at their side.”

Gwalcmai was clearly not happy with the plan, but he didn’t voice it. “Just be very careful. We’ve had some good memories on this trip and I wouldn’t want to have to tell your clone all about them.”

“You will see my power,” Aspasia’s Shadow, now known Y as Mordred, yelled out.

He was standing on a pile of rocks, looking down at the gathering of local and banished English knights that his Guides had bribed, cajoled, or threatened into being there. The knights were in a large semicircle around the rock pile, with a blazing bonfire between them and Mordred.

“You.” Mordred pointed at one of the Guides. “Go into the fire.”

A ripple of unease passed through the knights at this strange command. The Guide didn’t hesitate for a moment. He walked forward into the fire. Hair burst into flame, skin was scorched, yet the Guide stood ramrod straight, without any utterance of pain. The smell of burning flesh crept outward without even a breeze to clear the air. Several men, hardened knights, went to their knees gagging and vomiting.

The Guide collapsed, lifeless, the flames continuing to consume his flesh.

“Gather your men,” Mordred continued. “We will set sail for England in two months.”

The ring of steel on steel echoed off the castle’s stone walls, intermingled with the grunts and curses of men locked in combat. Arthur sat on a high-backed wooden chair, chin in palm, elbow on knee, watching the two knights who fought in the churned-up mud below him. The surface of the opening had been hard-packed dirt earlier that morning but twenty-three engagements later, it was soaked with blood, urine, and sweat, producing a foul tableau on which to fight for glory and one’s life.

The glory for the winner was a place at the massive table that Merlin, the king’s adviser, had had built for him. For the loser, the price was death. Arthur knew of the army being raised across the channel and he knew he needed the very best close to him to fight the Guides that surrounded Aspasia’s Shadow, who went among the humans under the name of Mordred.

Arthur leaned forward as one of the knights, a newcomer named Gawain, blocked his opponent’s blow, stepped inside of the other man’s shield, and slammed the point of his bladeinto the man’s unarmored armpit. The blade sank in, severing the artery, and Gawain stepped back as blood spurted out, joining the muck on the ground. The wounded man tried to lift his sword to continue fighting, but Gawain moved backed several more steps, letting the fatal blow run its course. The knight collapsed, not quite dead yet. He struggled against both the weight of his armor and the suffocating muck seeping into his helmet. Gawain moved forward, kneeling next to the man, lifting his head out of the mud.

“Let him die like the pig he is,” Arthur yelled.

“He fought bravely, my lord,” Gawain yelled back. “He should die like a warrior.”

Arthur smiled coldly. A romantic. Merlin was one too. Foolish humans. They didn’t understand it was all about power. Still, that feeling — and others — could be used.

“Go and get cleaned up,” Arthur ordered Gawain.

“My lord.”

Arthur turned in his seat. Merlin was in considerably better condition than he had been when Arthur first came to Tintagel. His beard was trimmed and his clothes were clean. Arthur often contemplated simply ripping the truth about the Grail’s location out of the self-proclaimed sorcerer with the point of a red hot knife, but the man had proven to be useful and it would be a precipitous action. Of more interest to the programming he had received under Qian-Ling was the desire to rip the truth out of Aspasia’s Shadow as to the exact location of his lair.

Arthur had enough consciousness and awareness to understand the plan he had been imprinted with, even if he had no control over following it. If he could uncover the location of Aspasia’s Shadow’s hideout, then kill the creature, hurry to the location, and get to the regeneration chamber before the next version was unleashed, that could tip the scales of the subversive war being waged between the two Airlia factions.

Merlin cleared his throat.

“What is it?” Arthur demanded.

“My spies report that Mordred will sail once he builds an Army.” Merlin unrolled a map. “They plan to land here.”

Arthur noted the location. Along the southern coastline, in an area controlled by a minor lord who had not yet sworn allegiance to Arthur.

“Is the Grail between here and there?” Arthur asked.

Merlin rolled the map back up. “The Grail is safe, my king.”

“It would be safer inside the castle walls.”

“Perhaps,” Merlin allowed, but said no more on that topic. “More have rallied to your cause,” he continued. “Soon all of the country will be united under your banner. There is much good you can do for the people.”

“Yes. I suppose there is. Call a meeting of the Table.”

Despite washing as vigorously as possible in the tub of water provided him, Gawain still could smell the scent of death on his skin. He buckled on his breastplate and tucked his helmet under one arm. Gaining entry to Arthur’s castle and inner circle had been relatively easy, if one considered having to fight to the death easy.

He followed the other knights through the narrow passages of the castle until they entered the large chamber that had once been Uther’s throne room and now housed a large round table constructed of numerous planks bound together with iron spikes. Arthur was already in the room, seated in the highest chair, with Merlin behind his right shoulder. Gawain stared at the “sorcerer.” A Watcher who had betrayed his oath.

Gawain had seen the ka that hung around Arthur’s neck as soon as he had entered the arena to fight. He had to assume that Arthur was Artad’s Shadow, as they had seen Aspasia’s Shadow years earlier.

“The invaders from across the channel will be on our shores in several years,” Arthur began without preamble. “Between now and then I am sending you all on a quest. There is something I want you to find. Many of you have heard of it in myths and legends. But it is real.”

Arthur paused and Gawain could see the look of consternation on Merlin’s face.

“I want you to find the Grail.”

Mordred considered the woman who had bribed and bartered her way into an audience with him. There was something about her that was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t pinpoint it.

“You have one minute to speak,” Mordred announced. “If what you say does not please me, you will be crucified as have those before you.”

She stared up at him, piercing black eyes challenging his. “I can get you aid once you land on the other side of the channel.”

“What kind of aid? From whom?”

“Intelligence and force of arms.”

“From whom?” he repeated.

“The Druids.”

“And these Druids are?”

“They worship the Earth mother. They have hidden in the hills many long years, oppressed first by the Romans and now by the lords who rule in England, including the new king, Arthur.”

Mordred drummed his fingers on the arm of the throne.

“And I have a spy in Arthur’s court.”

The fingers stopped their tattoo. “Who?”

“Someone in the inner circle of knights with which the king has surrounded himself with.”

“Interesting,” Mordred said. “When we land, can you contact this spy?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I want to know what Arthur has planned.”