"Oh don't scold him," Delling said, and put her rosy-tipped fingers on Mordred's shoulders. "He has never seen into the Tree before."
"Let the boy say more!" Brokk nimbly climbed the scaffold and wrenched open the vizard of red mantis eyes. The bearded face within looked frightened. "Have no fear, Fisher King. The fate-sayer has seen you with the dusk apples."
This news did not assuage the Fisher King's fear. His face shone so palely that the scar on his brow glowed crimson. "All fate is writ in a book of water. Unhouse me from this iron salvage. Unhouse me, devils!"
Brokk slammed the vizard back into place. "Mordred, you have made me happy. I will remember you when I am a god."
"Best you act swiftly, Brokk." Morgeu intoned her voice with enchantment. She took both of Mordred's hands and led him away from Delling. "Without deeds, visions are but unclaimed promises."
"There will be deeds!" Brokk grabbed a chain suspended from a pulley and stepped off the trestle. His compact body swiftly descended to the ground, purling the chain after him so that winch and gears clanked.
Swiveling trestles fitted together large pieces of black enamel armor, and they fused with a sibilant flaring of sparks. "The cables are already installed,” said the dwarf. “Your madman provides the final linkage. The work is done!"
Cruel Striker stepped forth silently, carrying his head high, a metallic cobra, chrome shoulders hooded like a cape over his sinuous, articulated spine. The dwarf paced before his creation, scrutinizing the gleaming giant with an admiring eye and muttering proudly to himself. "I have labored in Middle Earth long enough for the gods. Now I will take the fruit of the Storm Tree for myself and its ciders will transform me to an equal among the proud Aesir."
Twin ingots of fire brightened in Delling's eyes, a slash of sunrise in an angry stare. She watched Morgeu bending over the pale boy, whispering to him. She lifted a hammer from a clutter of tools and banged it fiercely on the worktable beside Brokk. Calipers and ribbons of metal bounced, and the excited dwarf stood abruptly still. "You said the boy was mine." Delling pointed sharply at Morgeu. "She is taking the fate-sayer."
"Put down that hammer," Brokk replied, sternly. "We will have the dusk apples. Let the boy go."
"You must help Brokk," Morgeu said with all her mesmeric strength. She had never attempted to enchant a goddess and did not know what to expect. "You must put down the hammer and lead Cruel Striker to the Rainbow Bridge. Without you to guide him to Yggdrasil, there will be no dusk apples for this greatest of inventors. Without your help, Brokk will never be more than a clever dwarf—and never entirely worthy of you. Go."
Delling nodded tenderly, and the fire in her eyes dimmed. She laid the hammer on the table and gazed softly at Brokk. "I will take Cruel Striker into the dawn with me. None of the Rovers of the Wild Hunt will see him." She walked to the slant portal from where she had entered, and she paused while Cruel Striker sleekly strode past her, a black diamond shadow. "I do this for you Brokk. I do this that we may be together in the World Tree, no longer prisoners of this scorched place."
"Delling!" Mordred called in his silver voice. "I will miss you."
She appeared briefly in her first form, sunflames in long rays of darkest red, an almost velvet light on which he had suckled and become godly with knowing. Then she vanished, and Morgeu pulled Mordred away with all her mother-strength.
Brokk stood at his viewer, thick face pressed close to the crystal sphere, monitoring the progress of his Cruel Striker. The boy looked and looked, hoping their eyes would touch one last time. The dwarf had been an amusing playmate, and there was more of his fate to say than the boy had said. "Cruel Striker will hold the treasure of the gods—but the gods will hold him!"
"Hush!" Morgeu lifted Mordred off his feet and scurried across the workshop with him. Her enchantments had proven more powerful than she had hoped, but she had no notion how long her influence would last. "Nuncle Brokk must not be disturbed. Come away."
The boy, nearly too big to carry, slowed her, and she set him down as soon as they departed the workshop. He gazed back along the rock corridor at the shining doorway, expecting Brokk to come striding through, looking for him. Morgeu's magic, however, worked too strong an enchantment, and the fate-sayer sighed.
"Don't be sad," Morgeu consoled. "You will see Delling again and Brokk as well—when you are lord of all Britain."
"My father is king." Mordred took Morgeu's hand. He led her a few paces to a stone stepway that spiraled up toward a blue egg of daylight. "He will always be lonely. I do not want his place."
Morgeu sat on the steps and leaned back on her elbows, assessing the weird pale thing she had spawned. "Say my fate."
"You came back for me. Your fate is mine." He smiled, sadly and also with mischief. "We will make our own fate, Morgeu the Doomed. Come. I know where Nuncle Brokk hides the most magical cup."
-)(-
Selwa accompanied Merlin from Londinium to Camelot. The wizard, distraught over Wesc's impending invasion and unhappy with the king's dragon hunt, proved a less amiable companion than he had on the river journey. He rode alone at the van of the royal retinue and appeared to brood.
Selwa knew otherwise. Through the gates of power that had opened in her, she could feel him reaching into the invisible dimensions, counseling with particles of light, reviewing with them his strategy for leading the king into the Storm Tree—if Arthur survived his dragon hunt.
The Storm Tree had seemed a quaint myth of the north tribes to Selwa until Merlin had opened in her body three of the seven eyes of God. Since then, the sky no longer held empty blue in a hood of clouds. Staring into the heavens with her magical sight, she watched auroras ruffling even in daylight. During the brief conference of kings, she had sat on the roof of the governor's palace and gazed for hours into these luminous, celestial falls.
Selwa had a strategy of her own. She touched it in silence and only with that rapt and most certain part of herself, the magical will coiled like a snake under her omphalos. She did not want Merlin to discover her plan, and so she did not allow herself to know it until the very day they returned to Camelot.
That chill October morning when she had woken in her wagon on the road to the citadel, she had sensed something marvelous about to happen. She had eschewed her usual gauzy robes and chosen to wear suede boots, black canvas trousers sturdy enough for a camel rider, and a curly-wool shirt.
She felt glad for those warm garments when she stood in the wizard's damp alchemic grotto. She did not yet grasp their purpose, not until she noticed the Dragon's teardrop and understood that she had dressed for a journey to Yggdrasil.
The teardrop, an orb big as a skull and heavy as iron, shimmered iridescently when she lifted it from the stone lap of the Original Mother. The ice-age statue alone witnessed her theft, for Merlin had his mind elsewhere.
Loki had escaped the bell jar, and the wizard did not have time to search for him. Starcharts preoccupied the old demon, because Ygrane had brought a black unicorn to Earth, a rare and dangerous creature whose very presence uncoiled branches of Yggdrasil into the future. Merlin had to plan their ascent carefully or they could lose themselves in time.
As Selwa climbed the grotto stairs, Kyner nearly collided with her. He shoved past, oblivious to the rock she carried, and she heard him shouting gruffly for Merlin: Cei still would not wake, Gawain and Gareth had fled to seek the Holy Grail, the papal emissary had disappeared as well. Where was the king? Duke Marcus had sent terrible news that Arthur had been carried off by a dragon.
Selwa chortled to hear so much confusion. Her own mind clear, a lens polished by Merlin's training, she focused the fiery energy of her heart's ambitions. She would take the Vanir Lotus for herself. Merlin had confided enough knowledge for her to immix the Dragon's teardrop with the Lotus nectar and to drink new life, new magic older than the gods!
Unlike her mentor, she harbored no concerns about climbing the World Tree. She was a not a queen or an enemy of the gods. No one
would notice her, and no foes but her own fear blocked her way. She calmed that fear with the majestic strength Merlin had opened in the secret depths of herself. And she moved dauntlessly when she carried the Dragon's teardrop out through the ouroboros portal and through the central hall to a bright doorway that floated several inches above the floor.
Through the entry she eyed an unearthly sight: the huge, pocked face of the moon in a lavender sky among starry pin-wheels and misty shreds of neon vapors. As Merlin had taught her, Camelot afforded a passage into Yggdrasil, and magic opened that portal. She stepped boldly into a vista of purple mountains and blue tree-roughs that descended among emerald meadows and labyrinthine valleys studded with lakes of golden stillness.
By the time Merlin noticed that the Dragon's teardrop and Selwa both had vanished, the Earth had turned and Camelot's entryways into Yggdrasil had shifted. The wizard removed his hat and dashed it to the ground, then kicked furiously at the Original Mother and hopped about with a bruised toe, cursing himself for trusting Selwa.
"The grandeur of love?" Loki oozed up from the cracked floor, where he had been hiding. He pretended to wipe dust from his black garments and tattooed head, dark eyes shining with glee. "I've been waiting for you to mark that you've been robbed."
Merlin glared furiously at the grinning god. "You could have stopped her."
"Should I have?" He leaned back against a rock shelf of glass retorts, their effervescent colors visible through his translucent torso. "We have an agreement, you and I, Merlin. I want the sword Lightning."
"Who let you out?" The wizard waved aside the question, already knowing the answer. "Athanasius. Where is he?"
"He tours the hollow hills." Loki shook his head ruefully. "When he released me, I thought to find you. I did. I intended to report the horrors I have seen in the future. Terrible things, Merlin. But then I reasoned, what do you care? You want your king to rule Britain here and now. What do you care of human slaughters in centuries to come? You're a demon!" He crossed his arms and raised his handsome chin defiantly. "So, I decided to wait here for you. I will not face Succoth and his demons again without the sword Lightning in my hand. If you want my help in the Storm Tree, Merlin, get me the sword."
-)(-
Arthur climbed a steep gorge trail with an infant swaddled against his chest. During his flight south from Caledonia, the dreamdragon he rode had dissolved and tossed him through piney treetops. His armor had broken his fall, and he had climbed down through the boughs uninjured. Stunned by the magical fury of his flight, he had wandered aimlessly through the forest—until he had found a tinker and his wife slain for their wagon and horse by a wildwood gang.
Their bones had lain like blackened stones where they had been burned. Twisted wagon tracks, the tinker's small hammer, and meager tin scraps discarded by the gang mutely testified to the brutal encounter in this evergreen holt. The baby had wailed from where the mother had hidden her beneath a juniper.
Arthur had provided water and eventually some cypress-root milk before the infant calmed down in his arms. He had removed his plate-armor vest and had used the leather straps and linen undershirt to fashion a harness that secured the infant. With his arms free, the king climbed the nearest bluff, hoping to find his way to a settlement. He found himself and the child deep in the hilly forests of Cymru, far from any haven.
The river Usk flowed darkly in the sunless gorge far below. A crude footbridge of hemp cables swayed above it, and a lanky figure moved nimbly across the clacking boards. Arthur recognized that angular figure instantly. The king hurried through the trees carrying the child and his incredulity.
Merlin emerged from a stand of cliffside conifers. "My lord!" the wizard called and clambered up the steep slope. "I have searched half of Cymru for you!"
Before the king could reply, a savage growl shook the air. A shaggy giant lumbered across the hillcrest—a bear big as legend. Its tiny eyes points of night, its teeth flashing, it shambled forward, then reared and opened its thick arms to take Arthur into its dark embrace.
The king staggered backward and drew Excalibur.
"The infant!" Merlin shouted, dashing toward his king, up the slick, needle-strewn hillside. "Give me the child!"
"Merlin—drive the beast away!" Arthur called, hastily unstrapping the bawling infant. "Use your magic!"
The wizard said nothing. With his own magic he had summoned the bear, to force the king to draw Excalibur. He snatched the child from Arthur and ran downhill among the wind-bent trees. Arthur followed, the bear charging swiftly toward them.
With remarkable agility, Merlin descended the incline and leaped onto the rickety footbridge, the baby squirming in his arms. Instantly, Arthur spun about, sword high, ready to battle the beast.
The bear had turned and loped away uphill.
Merlin's cry broke over Arthur. The king spun about, and his heart jumped. The frail bridge had snapped its moorings. In an instant, the swaying span would plummet into the chasm. Arthur hurried to the very brink to grab the wizard and found him too far away and the bridge rocking violently.
"The child!" Merlin cried out, and tossed the infant into the air.
At that doomful instant, the cables snapped, and the bridge swung away, the wizard riding it in a robe belled with wind. The baby lofted askew, bound for the rocks below. The only possibility that the king had of catching her required him to throw out his arms and drop his sword into the gulf.
"No!" he yelled, refusing to relinquish Excalibur, his only hope against the malign gods.
Yet—as Merlin knew he would—Arthur let go the beautiful weapon. It toppled through the air, flashing sunlight-bright and quick, before it disappeared into the shadowy gorge.
There, Loki waited, crouching on a crumblesome ledge where the wizard had placed him. When the sword fell past, he snatched it. At the same moment, on the cliff brim above, Arthur reached out both arms, his whole upper body swinging over the dizzy precipice to seize the infant with his fingertips and pull her to his heart.
-)(-
Brokk pressed his porcine face close to the crystal orb, staring hard into the dawn within. Delling had delivered Cruel Striker over the Rainbow Bridge into Yggdrasil. The dwarf gazed blearily across the crimson twilight, numb-edged as a drunk, waiting for the armored man to return.
When the alarm blared, he bumped his head against the crystal. "What now?" he muttered testily.
The slave elves, obeying the alarm, returned to their cells, and the kilns in their grottoes dimmed. Brokk pulled a lever on the orb post, and the crystal revealed the site of the alarm: an alabaster niche in a black wall lay bare.
"The Graal!" Brokk yelped. He pulled several other levers, panic-stricken, scanning the domed vault where he had stored the chalice. He could find it nowhere in the large well of ebon rock. Most recently, the dwarf had used the magical cup to bend weather away from the West Isles. The Furor would be enraged if rain hampered his invasion of Britain, and he would certainly crucify Brokk for losing the Graal.
Hands a blur upon the levers, the dwarf checked each of the exits and caught a glimpse of a crimson robe disappearing into the smoky entryway of Skidblade. In the narrowing door, he glimpsed ghost-pale Mordred clinging to Morgeu's side—and, in her hand, the gold cup scattering light like music.
Skidblade served the Furor. Because the chieftain had placed the fleet ship under Morgeu's command, Brokk could not stop it from departing the gravel banks where the enchantress had called it to her. In a blink, it spooled brilliantly upward and out of sight.
Brokk wailed and pounded the crystal sphere with both fists. The orb jarred, and the image of the frost-glazed sky wobbled. With one hand to steady the viewer and the other working the levers, the agitated dwarf shifted to the panorama of dawn and shouted, "Delling! Call back Cruel Striker at once!"
"He may not yet have the dusk apples ... "
"At once!" Brokk cut off Delling's puzzled reply, "I need Cruel Striker here immediately!"
&
nbsp; Delling complied. The fluted silk of her dawn colors fluoresced, fanning yellow rays higher into the sky. She directed Brokk's command to the living armor, ordering it to depart the Storm Tree.
At that moment, Cruel Striker had backed out of the grange silo where Keeper of the Dusk Apples stored her small and rare harvest. The silo, a pile of massive stones soft-edged with velvet lichen, had a monolithic door graven in crimson runes. The runes forbade all but Keeper of the Dusk Apples to enter, and the ponderous stone responded only to her command. Brokk had designed it thus. And he had fashioned Cruel Striker to mimic her command perfectly.
With a canvas sack bulging full of dusk apples, Cruel Striker emerged from the grange silo. Before he could give the command to shut the giant door, Delling called, and the armor turned about and marched off.
The Fisher King, snug as a kernel within the metal shell, gawked about, frightened. This was no world he recognized. Greyhound clouds dashed across the darkest blue sky he had ever seen, running before stars dense as sea foam.
A landscape of deep-cleft dales with jade forests and hillslopes of saffron grasses flourished more voluptuously than any garden he had witnessed on earth. Hollowed by awe, he realized that this devil armor had actually delivered him to heaven—and it had successfully stolen the apples of Eden.
He bawled for the angels to stop him. He bawled for Michael of the flaming sword. The angels did not hear, but Keeper of the Dusk Apples did.
She lay with the Furor in a tree house overgrown with sinewy vines and hidden from all but those who knew it was there. Animal spirits of creatures slain by the Furor patrolled the verdant grove as sentinels. The privacy of the lovers was so assured that the Fisher King's cry surprised the goddess.
She pulled herself out of the Furor's arms and sat upright. It took her a moment to realize that the voice had squeaked from the foot of the bed, from the guardian amulet she had discarded with her veils and silks. The amulet's starflint had been cut to listen to what the stones of her grange silo heard.
The Serpent and the Grail (The Perilous Order of Camelot) Page 33