“Are you all right, Sir Boris?”
“Just getting my second wind, Sire,” the old knight said staunchly. “We have them on the run, I think.”
“I do too,” Arthur said, but he knew that wouldn’t matter if their commander managed to escape. “Where the devil is Mordred?”
“I saw him over there,” the footman volunteered in a thin nasal voice. He pointed. Arthur ran in that direction, Excalibur at the ready.
Mordred was waiting for him. Even in the mist, there was no mistaking that figure in his bat-winged helmet. Mordred stood in the shadow of an enormous oak, leaning against its trunk nonchalantly. In his right hand was a long-handled black ax.
Arthur slowed to a walk at the sight of his son. The anger that he had expected to feel at this moment ebbed away, to be replaced by sorrow for all that had been lost. However sinful his birth, Mordred was Arthur’s son, but Arthur had never been given a chance to love him.
Mordred… Guinevere… even Morgan. I’ve lost them all. Deep in his heart, Arthur mourned for the loss of what might have been. I gave you life. Now, it seems, I have to give you death.
“Mordred,” he said.
“Father,” Mordred answered, mocking his tone. He took a few steps forward.
“It’s time to end it all,” Arthur said, raising Excalibur.
“We agree on that, at least,” Mordred said philosophically. “You know, Father—if you’d lived—I don’t think we’d be very happy as a family.” He raised his ax.
Arthur stepped forward.
In the Enchanted Forest, Merlin suddenly sat up.
“What is it, Merlin?” Nimue asked, sitting up as well.
“I heard a scream,” Merlin said slowly.
He could still hear them—the screams of dying men and horses, the clash of battle. For an instant all the intervening years dissolved, and he was back on the ice near Winchester on a cold winter’s morning, Excalibur in his hands, as Uther and Vortigern fought for the crown and men died all around them in the snow.
“No,” Nimue said protestingly. “It’s nothing to do with us,” she said quickly, her hand on Merlin’s shoulder. She kissed him and stroked his face, urging him to lie back once more, to give himself up to sleep, to dreams.…
“No,” Merlin said, sighing as he lay back once more. I suppose it isn’t.
There was something he must remember… if he could only concentrate.…
Mordred’s black ax rang out as he parried the first blow, and in that moment, Arthur knew that strength and speed were not the only fairy gifts that Mab had given her catspaw. The ax met Arthur’s blade unyieldingly, and the forest rang with the force of the impact. Magic fought magic, steel fought steel, strength fought strength in a battle of equals. Again and again the weapons clashed without disclosing a clear victor.
But while Mordred had only seven years of experience, Arthur had more than three times that.
They closed and grappled, their weapons useless for a moment. Arthur flung Mordred away with the strength of desperation, his boots skidding on the autumn leaves. Mordred fell, but sprang to his feet again cat-quickly, shrieking in fury as he ran at Arthur. Retreating, Arthur parried the ax blow and struck at Mordred with Excalibur, but the blade slid off Mordred’s armor without wounding him.
He can only be slain by his own weapon! Arthur realized in a flash of inspiration. It must be true, if even Excalibur could not harm him.
Carefully Arthur laid his trap, circling and feinting until Mordred closed with him once more. This time when he flung Mordred to the ground, he followed up on his advantage, stamping down hard with his boot on the haft of the ax as it crossed Mordred’s chest. The impact of the blow drove the spike at the back of the ax-head deep into Mordred’s ribs.
Arthur reeled back, gasping with exertion.
As though it were only a practice bout, Mordred reached down and yanked the ax from his chest. He clutched at the wound, panting, and then raised his hand to pull off his helmet. There was blood about his mouth, but despite this, he seemed curiously unmoved. Slowly, painfully, he rolled over and got to his knees. He was gasping in torment, but his mouth was stretched in a murderous smile and his eyes never left Arthur’s face.
The fight was over. All that remained was the execution. Arthur pulled off his helmet and cast it aside. When Mordred was dead his power would be broken, the battle ended.
“I’m sorry, Mordred,” Arthur said in a ragged voice. He raised Excalibur to deliver the killing stroke.
“Tut-tut, Father,” Mordred gasped weakly. “Another sin? You’d kill your own son?”
Arthur froze in horror. Only for a moment, but a moment was all that Mordred needed. He pulled the dagger concealed in his boot-top and thrust it into Arthur’s chest.
The blade slipped through the plates of golden mail as though Arthur wore silk, not steel. He reeled back with the pain, his life’s blood gushing like a hot waterfall from the wound.
Mordred gazed up at him, gloatingly.
And with his last ounce of strength, Arthur drove Excalibur forward into the wound Mordred’s own blade had made in his black armor, and drove Excalibur into Mordred’s heart. Mordred fell back against the autumn leaves, dying.
Pain rushed through Arthur’s body like the flames of hell. He dropped to his knees and began to crawl away from Mordred, clutching Excalibur in his hand. He was dying, but the sword must be saved.
In the Land of Magic, Mab saw Mordred crumple to the ground, and for a moment she could not believe what she saw. Surely this was some trick, some feint?
But in her heart she knew it was not, and screamed a soundless wild scream of despair. Her world was crumbling away with his death, ebbing as his heart slowed. Mordred, the child of her black heart, her last love, was dying.
Excalibur!
Merlin fought his way painfully up out of sleep. It was Excalibur that drew him. In his dreams, he had seen Arthur fall. If Arthur died, who would wield Excalibur?
Then he was fully awake at last, the cries of the dying ringing in his ears, though Nimue still lay dreaming upon the leaves. Now Merlin could see the battle as well as hear it, see the two combatants—one as bright as the golden sun, the other as dark as death—battle until both of them fell.
Dying.
Arthur was dying.
Merlin struggled to rise. His senses were confused, but his course was clear at last.
Since the moment I reclaimed it for the world, Excalibur has brought about only suffering and pain. If magic’s time is past, then Excalibur’s time is over as well.
“Sir Rupert!” he called, staggering to his feet. His voice emerged as a weak croak.
*Are we leaving?* the horse asked, trotting up. The animal was saddled and bridled as always.
“Yes.” Merlin said no more. He moved to mount, but it took him several tries to get into the saddle. His limbs were curiously weak. When he finally managed to mount, he looked back to see Nimue had wakened. She had gotten to her feet and was gazing toward him beseechingly. Her eyes were bright with tears at the sight of Sir Rupert.
“What is it, Merlin?”
“Arthur is dying.” Admitting that was almost like admitting defeat. There was a heavy ache in Merlin’s chest. “I must go to him.”
She smiled, a smile of painful resignation.
“I’ll be back very soon,” Merlin said. Just this one last task, Nimue. Then we will be together for always.
“I’ll be waiting for you. Always,” she answered.
Merlin turned Sir Rupert’s head toward the cave entrance. “Very soon,” he repeated, as if reassuring himself. “I swear it.” He rode toward the entrance of the cave.
Behind him, Nimue dissolved in tears.
The passage out of the cave was more oppressive than the journey in, and Sir Rupert, catching his rider’s unease, was cantering by the time they reached the open air.
Merlin blinked at the brightness of true daylight after so much time spent in the Enchanted Forest
. He had just reined Sir Rupert to a stop when suddenly there was a rumble behind him, and a tingle of magic over his skin. He turned, and stared in horrified disbelief as the rocks slid shut to seal the mouth of the cave.
He gestured, willing them to open again, but his magic had no effect. Though Sir Rupert tried to stop him, Merlin vaulted from the horse’s back and ran toward the closing stones, as if mortal brawn could accomplish what wizardly magic could not.
But he strove in vain. The rocks came together, closing the Enchanted Forest away from the World of Men, and Nimue away from Merlin.
“Nimue! Nimue!” he shouted over and over, hammering his fists against the unyielding stone.
She had known that this would happen. All magic had rules and conditions that must be met. Mab would have explained them to Nimue before she brought her here. Merlin had sensed no trap when he had entered the cave, because there was no trap. It was Nimue herself who had been the trap. She had been supposed to bind him to stay within the cave through her love.
But she had not played the part that Mab had assigned to her. She had sacrificed herself so that Merlin could go free.
I will never see her again, Merlin realized with a pang of cold finality. The grief of his double bereavement—Arthur and Nimue, both lost to him in the same moment—was breathtakingly sharp. But he vowed that Nimue would not have sacrificed herself in vain.
“Sir Rupert!” Merlin shouted, turning back to his horse.
There was still time to reach Arthur and Excalibur.
Her robes—like her power—had faded to the soft grey of ancient dust, and streaks of bone-white swirled through her midnight hair. In the dirt and leaves of the forest floor, Mab knelt over the dying Mordred. Desperately she pressed her hands over the gaping wound in his chest, willing him to live.
It was useless. Once, long before the New Religion came to Britain, Mab had been Maiden and Mother as well as Warrior Queen. She had been able to grieve, and to love. But the power of life and death had never been Mab’s to wield.
“I cannot save you,” she complained, gathering Mordred into her arms.
Now all she had left was anger, and her voice was filled with a wild anger now as she commanded him. “Don’t die, Mordred!”
Mordred gazed up into her face, and because he loved her, Mordred forced himself to smile. “Don’t worry, Auntie Mab,” he whispered, with a ghost of his old mockery. “That’s the last thing I shall do.”
And so it was. Mordred had never bothered to learn to lie, and he told the truth now. As he finished speaking, he gave a great sigh, and his body went limp.
He was dead. Mab’s last, best, brightest hope. Her champion, her child, her love. Dead.
She looked up and saw Lord Idath, waiting to receive Mordred’s soul.
“Save him!” she cried. “You are the Lord of Death—give him back to me!” Her fingers curved like claws. If Idath had been a mortal enemy, she would have fought him, but he was Death Itself, and her equal.
“Did I not tell you when you came for the Black Sword that Caliban was the last boon I would grant?” Lord Idath said inexorably. “You chose vengeance over love, Queen of the Old Ways. Be content with your choice.”
Then he was gone, and Mordred’s spirit with him.
Mordred had left her.
Mab was alone in a world that hated her.
But she no longer cared. Now Mab lived only to destroy.
She threw back her head and howled her vengeance.
There was a long trail of blood behind him in the leaves. Every inch was agony, but Arthur crawled doggedly onward. Excalibur must not fall into the hands of his enemies. He must reach water, so he could return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake.
He could smell the lake ahead. At the edge of a steep slope leading down to the water he stopped to rest for a moment. He could feel his strength ebbing with every heartbeat, and knew he was going to fail. One last failure, to set beside a lifetime of unmet expectations. Then a shadow fell across his face, and Arthur knew that he had been delivered from that final shame.
“Old friend,” he whispered painfully, looking up at Merlin. “I knew you’d come.”
Merlin smiled down at him, and if the old wizard’s heart ached at the sight of Arthur’s battered body, his face gave no sign of it.
“How goes the day, Arthur?” he asked quietly.
“I’ve seen better,” Arthur whispered, and managed to smile.
Merlin knelt beside Arthur and put his arm around the dying man’s shoulders, lending him the warmth and comfort of another human presence. He could do no more. The Old Ways dealt in illusion and trickery. Merlin had never learned any magic that could bring a man back from the gates of death.
“Take the sword to the lake. No one must have it…” Arthur said. He struggled to hand Excalibur to Merlin. Merlin stopped him, closing his hand over Arthur’s. The King’s flesh was as cold as rain beneath his palm.
“Go, Merlin,” Arthur demanded in a whisper, his voice shaking with pain. “Now.”
I can’t let you die alone! a voice in Merlin’s heart cried. But he knew he owed Arthur the peace of knowing Excalibur was safe.
“Rest easy, son. You were the right man to hold Excalibur,” Merlin said as he took the sword.
Arthur smiled in triumph. His face was white with agony.
As gently as he could, Merlin laid Arthur back against the tree to rest. With Excalibur naked in his hand, he strode down the hillside to the lake.
Behind him, Arthur pulled himself up to watch Merlin go. The last effort was too much for him. With a soft sigh he toppled forward, his body rolling slightly along the slope in death.
Now that Arthur was not there to see them, the tears welled up in Merlin’s eyes. He had held Arthur in his hands when the boy had been only a few hours old. Arthur had been the only son he would ever have, the crucible of all Merlin’s hopes and dreams. No parent should ever have to watch the light of life fade from his child’s eyes.
Merlin reached the water’s edge.
“Take it back, Lady!” he shouted in grief. He flung the sword out over the water with all his strength, not certain of what would happen. The blade flashed as the sword spun, end over end, and finally began to fall toward the water.
An arm clad all in white samite thrust up out of the water to clasp the hilt of the blade and point it toward the sky. So Excalibur had flashed the first time he had seen it, and the ghost of the joy he had felt then was like a dagger in Merlin’s heart.
The hand slowly sank below the surface of the lake, and Merlin heard Excalibur’s magic song for the last time then as the Lady of the Lake drew the sword into her keeping once more.
But not forever. Excalibur was the sword of heroes. It would not rest forever. Someday, a new hero would wield it.
But not today. Camelot was broken and doomed. Lancelot—Guinevere—Arthur—Nimue—all were lost, all gone. Here on this very shore the Lady of the Lake had once promised Merlin a champion to protect Camelot.…
“You lied to me!” Merlin cried, sinking to his knees in an agony of grief.
“I didn’t lie to you, Merlin.”
He could see her out of the corner of his eye, swimming in the lake of air. She looked very much as she always had, silver as the lake itself and shining like the moon. She hovered in the air above the lake like a fish hovering in water and regarded him with distant kindliness.
“I told you the answer was at Joyous Gard,” she said slowly.
“That’s where I found Lancelot,” Merlin said accusingly. Lancelot who doomed us all. But there had been no other warrior at Joyous Gard. Who else could Merlin have chosen as Guinevere’s champion?
Suddenly Merlin realized the answer. He gazed up at the Lady of the Lake.
“It wasn’t Lancelot, was it?” he said in a ragged voice.
“It was the boy,” the Lady of the Lake said gently.
Galahad… who knows what would have changed if I had brought him to Camelot instead
of Lancelot?
Merlin’s face twisted with the bitterness of the realization. He had been wrong to blame Guinevere, Lancelot, anyone but himself. The fault was his, and his alone. He had been so blind.…
“It’s human to make mistakes, Merlin,” the Lady of the Lake said in her slow, tidal voice. “And part of you is human… the best part. Good-bye, Merlin. My sister Mab was right about one thing.… When we are forgotten, we cease to exist.”
Her last words were spoken with slow deliberation, as though she meant him to understand something beyond what she had said. But the day had been too long, too full of loss. Merlin stared numbly as the Lady of the Lake leaped high into the air and dove beneath the surface of the water once more, never to return. Then he turned his back upon the Enchanted Lake and trudged wearily away.
Frik crouched wearily at the base of a tree among a small group of the King’s soldiers, staring at nothing as the baneful mist curled around them all. If the mist had been Mordred’s spell, it had not vanished with him like all the others. If Frik looked up, he could still see the baleful red eye of the comet shining through the mist.
At least he was still alive, and Mordred wasn’t. Frik supposed his being here meant that they must have won. That was something.
But Mab would want her vengeance for Mordred’s death. Even without his magic, Frik had felt her screams of rage as they had reverberated through the forest. The Queen of the Old Ways no longer had anything left to lose.
Now you know what it’s like to lose someone you love, don’t you, Mab? But I don’t suppose it will make any difference. Compassion was never your strong suit.
Love had changed Frik, and this day had changed him even more. He was sickened by what he had done, caught up just as all of them had been in the wild joy of war. His armor was battered, his muscles ached, and his face was spattered with the blood of the slain.
Who would have thought mortals had so much blood in them? the gnome thought, shuddering. His mind was filled with the ghostly howls of the wounded, the phantom screams of the dying. He had seen pain and cruelty, malice and suffering, greater than anything he had ever imagined, and with his newly-human heart he had felt it all. After what he had seen today, Frik knew that he would never be able to go to war again, no matter how righteous the cause.
The End of Magic Page 19