Without the distraction of the book, Merle crushed the handful of herbs onto the surface of the water. Stirring the water with one finger, he murmured the scrying rhyme while the bits drifted to the bottom. He stared as the rippling surface smoothed. The water turned glassy and silver, reflecting nothing of Mordred’s whereabouts. He might as well have been wasting energy scrying for the dead or one not yet conceived.
Merle let the spell fade as he considered the sword sticking out the side of the concrete basement wall. Agdern had sent him forewarning. The sword was safe enough for the time being while he located Mordred’s lair. Spells built into the very structure of the house protected the ancient weapon from his enemies and held it in trust for its wielder.
The sword sure made a heck of a story for his grandkids. A faint smile tugged at his cheek, fading at the reminder of Gennie’s refusal. The first sorceress born to both Arthur’s line and his own, Genevieve Pendragon’s destiny shone bright as the sun. If only the girl would stop hiding her head in the sand and take up her legacy, Merle would have a worthy apprentice.
Speaking of the girl, it was time to stir things up a bit in her safe little world. She needed to get out more, go on a date like other young people. Merle jingled the change in his pants pocket with one hand. The other he stroked over the short white beard on his chin. Not as grand a beard as he once had, but neat and becoming for this time period.
Now, what extraordinary men did he know, that his granddaughter had not already met and rejected? Godlings, saints, wizards, and a few mythological heroes, Merle had sent her a selection of the most extraordinary males. And what did she do? The girl handed the poor fellows their egos back and sent them on their way. It had gotten to the point that many of his friends feared answering his calls. Merle harrumphed. As if he would send any of those crotchety fools to his granddaughter. Gennie deserved someone with honour. He searched for the phrase his dear departed wife used. A knight in shining armour.
Only one man was qualified to hunt their Gennie up a knight. Matchmaking for his favourite ‘niece’ would be just the distraction to keep Arthur out of Merle’s way while he took care of the Mordred problem.
Merle searched the pocket with change and frowned. No cell phone. He patted his other pocket with the same results before moving on to his flat vest pockets. He checked those too, before he remembered handing Gennie his phone and a new list of numbers to enter into the address book. “Damned son of a satyr.”
Shoving both hands into the loose pockets of his well worn khaki trousers, he wondered where in the ninth hell he’d posted Arthur’s new number. Surely the boy could come up with a few decent knights for Gennie to date. If not, the longer the task took the better.
The deep voice took him by complete surprise. Soft menace infused the familiar accent that his enemy never managed to rid himself of. “Truly old man, you do not age. You’re as withered and wrinkled as in any other century.”
Merle twisted around, surprised to see what appeared to be an affable young version of his closest friend, leaning against one of the far bookshelves near the staircase. Arthur’s sin made flesh, the bastard prince had inherited the handsome face of his father, the magical talents of his mother, Morgause, and the black, conniving heart of his grandfather, Uther.
“Mordred.” Merle spat the name as if he could get the foul taste of it from his mouth.
Tall for the men of that time, Mordred had the muscular build of a professional athlete, or a warrior trained to the sword. The bastard prince’s chain-mail gleamed, polished to perfection. He smiled, revealing the dimples in his planed cheeks that women at court had tittered over. One hand hooked over the ornately carved leather belt holding his scabbard. Leisurely, he propped his other elbow on one of the shelves, as if at rest.
Unlike many others, Merle had never been deceived by Mordred’s good looks. He disdained polishing as a lazy use for magic. Elbow work nourished the soul and one should not waste the precious gift of magic on pretence.
The young man’s smile faded into a hard, grim line. “Have I struck you speechless great wizard?” The blue of his eyes glowed with a depth of anger and hatred found only in hell. Straightening, he walked further into the room, facing the wizard across the expanse of the centre worktable. “Or has your mind become so feeble to have missed the tiny crack in your defences that I used for my time-gate spell.”
Merle raised his arms, steeling himself inside. There could be no mercy here. He called on the well of magic that lived inside him, allowing the reservoir to fill him full. Power tingled along his nerves. “Foul whelp! Get thee gone!” Wind whipped around the room. Loose papers took flight. Glass beakers rattled in their racks. Above, hanging bunches of dried herbs ripped from the clothesline.
Mordred swayed, keeping his footing steady. He lifted a finger, pointing back and forth “Nay, wizard. Not this time. Do you remember the day I promised the destruction of all you loved?” A smile twisted his lips, belying the conversational tone. “Today is that day. Elector!” He pointed and a gods-bolt, alive with brilliant blue energy, slammed into the wizard.
Magical energy tore through Merle’s body, threatening to tear him apart molecule by molecule. Merle reeled, gasping in agony. He stumbled and fell. His head hit the edge of the table. Stars of pain exploded behind his eyes.
A second bolt blasted into the wall beside Excalibur. The stone that kept the sword trapped and dormant cracked. The protecting wards wavered, but held.
Merle pushed past the fire in his body from the gods-bolt. He tapped into the well of power stored deep inside him, sending a white lightning bolt of pure electricity into Mordred’s armour. The intruder’s third blue gods-bolt blew the wall into a shower of grey-white powder that filled the room with a thick, drifting cloud. Ears ringing from the explosion, Merle listened with his inner senses, using the magic in the spells and wards woven into the building’s foundation to locate his enemy. The dust thinned, revealing a crouched shadow hunting through the rubble. He felt more than heard the hollow grinding of concrete rocks being moved aside. Merle’s inner sense screamed the alarm, the wards providing his brain with the image as Mordred’s hand touched the sword.
“I have it! Excalibur is mine!” The shadow straightened, triumphant. Mordred’s cultured accent dropped into the musical accent of his birth. Mocking derision dripped from his words. “Merlin the wise. Merlin the merciful. Shall I show you the same generosity you have always given me?” Mordred laughed, a chilling sound that grated on the wizard’s nerves. Mordred thrust the sword aloft. His voice rose in a binding spell intended to tie the magic of Excalibur to him. When he finished, silence fell over the room. Sifting dust cast eerie images into their vision. “What? This is dead steel!”
Instead, the rogue prince triggered a trap. The spells protecting the house fractured and broke. Like a huge gas leak, magical energy flooded the room. The decoy clanged when it hit the floor and rubble. Somewhere in the pile of broken concrete wall, lay the real Excalibur.
Merle sagged, feeling the weight of every one of his thousands of years. He’d planned for just this contingency. The only thing worse than Mordred taking Excalibur, would be the smarmy bastard obtaining Grimmy. He would allow neither one to happen.
Magical energy stirred the concrete dust, keeping the cloud from settling. Merle found it hard to breathe. He coughed on rock dust. A thousand magical needles pricked his skin as something warm trickled into his eyes. Mordred would not gain Excalibur or the grimoire through Merlin’s failing.
Rock and matter shifted as his enemy walked through the mess. “What are you about, old man? Not dead yet? Never matter, you will be.”
“Dead, because of you? A pathetic hanger-on?” Merle laughed, ignoring the sliver of uncertainty running through his gut. “I think not.” He muttered the spell under his breath, a common fairy-tale curse, clichéd as hell, but ingenious too. So much could go wrong.
Mordred’s hatred for his father, his hatred for them both, Arthur and
Merlin, blinded him. Mordred would never think to look in plain sight. Wounded pride made many a man bitter. Thank the gods that few had the power Mordred possessed to wreak havoc.
Merle added another qualifier to the spell to hide the constructs, giving them protectors until they returned to their original forms. “Not today, boy.” He breathed in a lungful of rock dust and air, screaming the spell’s trigger word. “SHA-ZAAAM!”
Nothing happened.
Mordred laughed. King Arthur’s brat laughed so hard, he bent double.
BOOM!
The house exploded and the world went black.
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About the Author
Buffi BeCraft-Woodall writes Romantic Paranormal fantasy with a heavy dose of East Texas thrown in. Her first book was the result of a challenge. At the time Buffi was casting around, trying to come up with an idea for a book that was both marketable and fun to write. When her mother insisted that no one could write a paranormal she would be able to understand, the war was on. She wanted create a book that was easy for those uninitiated to the whole paranormal/fantasy genre to both understand and enjoy. Buffi is happy to say that her mother is now waiting anxiously for the next release.
Email: [email protected]
Buffi loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
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