Suppose Woodley took Excalibur and failed to conquer Morgan? Suppose he couldn’t wield the magic sword? After all, he hadn’t really killed the undine. He had depended on strategy, which was perhaps more dependable than courage alone.
If Woodley had had no alternative, he would have battled Morgan, and done his best. He thought so, anyhow. But the alternative was so much safer!
Besides—he wasn’t Arthur!
Not that he was a coward—no. But Bleys’ proposition was a gamble, pure and simple. And why should Woodley gamble with his own future at stake? Merlin was in the oak, and Merlin, with all his mighty powers, was certainly a match for Morgan le Fay. This way was logical, much safer, and with the odds in his favor.
And yet—certainly there was something very splendid about the alternative Bleys was offering. Excalibur! To hold such a weapon! Briefly his mind flamed with the idea. Armed with that enchanted sword, he would have little need to fear even the Queen of Air and Darkness.
Provided—and that was the hitch!—provided he could hold Cut-Steel. What if he wasn’t the man? Certainly he didn’t feel very much like Arthur Pendragon. In the wrong hands Excalibur would be worse than useless—probably it couldn’t even be wielded. Woodley’s scalp crawled at the thought of himself facing Morgan’s terrible gaze armed with a useless sword—
No, it was too much of a gamble. Accepting this glittering offer might mean finding himself completely defenseless against Morgan, with all chance of escape gone. The dice were too heavily loaded. Merlin meant certain safety.
The Druid bent forward, eager-eyed. “Excalibur is hidden in a place where only Arthur would dare enter. Let me show you that place.”
Woodley took a deep breath.
“Bleys,” he said, his voice not quite steady. “I think I’ve got a better idea. I’m going to try it, anyhow. If it doesn’t work, I’ll be back to fight Morgan.”
The Druid’s figure seemed to shrink in upon itself. Bleys let fall his hand from Woodley’s arm and stepped back.
“Gawaine,” he said. “Excalibur is not offered twice.”
“But—I’ll fight Morgan, if I have to. Only—”
There was no answer, only stony silence. Woodley hesitated, feeling, curiously, as though he had failed some vital test. He turned at last to the door, leaving Bleys sitting on the floor, pouring brandy down his throat.
For a moment there had been a curious, somber dignity to the old man; the brandy had paradoxically made him soberer than Woodley had ever seen him. All that was gone now. Except for a little discouraged sag to the shoulders, he looked as he had always looked, dingy and drunk.
“Good-bye, fool,” he said. “Bip!”
Woodley nodded and let the curtain fall back, picking up the crockery bowl he had left outside the door. Then he went in search of the portal by which Bleys and he had entered the castle yesterday. He was thinking uncomfortably of Bleys’ proposal—and almost regretting his decision.
But it was much more important to be watching for possible guards. Suppose he encountered Vivienne? Or even Morgan? But not even a naiad appeared. Ten minutes later Woodley was climbing the lake bottom.
Fish swam past. He plodded on. And at last his head broke water.
Well—he had made his decision. He hoped it had not been the wrong one. There was only one way to find out—
He filled the crockery bowl, and, when he had to breathe again, he did so after dipping his face into the water. It worked.
He repeated the process half a dozen times before he felt satisfied. Then he made for the shore. The stream burst out of its gorge a few hundred feet to the left. Woodley reached it and discovered that the canyon, though steep, was by no means unscalable.
He looked back. Behind him, the still surface of the lake shone like silver under the midday sun. Was that—his heart jumped—was that something leaping up from the depths?
Only a fish, thank Heaven. But the sight reminded Woodley of the urgent need for speed. He inadvertently breathed air, and spluttered and coughed for a time with his face in the water. Then he turned to the gorge.
He Climbed fast. Nor had he far to go—half a mile or less, till he recognized the spot where he had first met Vivienne. The oak must be a few hundred yards beyond.
Some instinct made him look up. High above, toward the lake, a bird was wheeling in midair. No—not a bird—Vivienne!
“Lord!” Woodley breathed, and dived under a projecting rock. He lay hidden for a time. When he dared to peer out again, Vivienne had vanished. Luckily she had not yet glimpsed her quarry.
At any rate, Morgan herself presumably wasn’t warned yet. That was something. Woodley hurried on up the gorge. He had difficulty in breathing, somehow. The water in the bowl choked him. He replenished it from the stream and went on. He caught sight of the oak.
It was as he had remembered, with the little root-cavern under it. So this was Merlin’s prison!
Now for it. Woodley refilled the bowl, climbed the bank, and experimentally approached the tree. There was no sign of Vivienne—as yet.
His skin felt hot and dry. He would have liked to immerse himself in the brook, but it was too small, and, in any case, there was no time to waste. The spell Bleys had given him—
Woodley plucked seven oak leaves and laid them in a row on the ground before the tree. He put his face into the bowl, took a deep breath, and lifted his head. Now—
His skin was burning like fire. Woodley knew he had to get back to the water fast—not merely to breathe it, but to keep himself from shriveling up like a beached jellyfish.
He said the spell, a short one, articulating each word carefully.
There was a clap of thunder, a streak of lightning, and, with a terrific crash, the bole of the oak split asunder. Woodley had a moment’s fear that the commotion would attract Vivienne.
The tree’s trunk was hollow. A man stepped out.
It was Merlin Ambrosius, a tall, dignified man with a hooked nose and a long white beard He looked exactly like a professor of history, except for his brown robe and hood.
“Merlin!” Woodley said, his voice tense with relief, and hastily dipped his face into the bowl. Let Vivienne come now! Merlin was free!
“Oh, dear, dear,” said the wizard, in a querulous voice. “You . . . you’re not Arthur? But no; I can see that you’re not. Why do people meddle so? Why can’t you mind your own business?”
Woodley said, quite stupefied, “I . . . I’ve freed you from the oak where Vivienne imprisoned you.”
Merlin threw up his hands. “What in Heaven’s name ever gave you that fantastic idea? One of Vivienne’s stories, I suppose. She wouldn’t want the truth to get out, of course. Name of Mider! For centuries she’s been looking for this oak, trying to find me, ever since I shut myself up here.”
“You—shut yourself up?”
“I presume you’ve met Vivienne,” Merlin said, with furious patience. “A lovely girl. A charming girl. But she talks like a magpie. Scandal, scandal, scandal, morning, noon, night and Sabbaths. She followed me all around Britain—I couldn’t get away from the wench. How she loved me! And how she talked! I couldn’t think straight. Every time I tried to work out a spell, she’d begin babbling about the affair Duke Somebody had with Dame Somebody Else. Oh, no!” Merlin said emphatically. “It wasn’t Vivienne who shut me up in this oak. I shut myself up, and I’ve had a very pleasant time since, thank you, except when Vivienne got dangerously close. I’ve been napping, off and on, and working out some lovely new magic. But I was always afraid that beautiful, brainless, chattering magpie would find me some day and make my life a hell again.
“But no more,” Merlin said very firmly. “I’ve worked out a new spell for which there’s no antidote. It begins somnus eternatis, and I’m going to use it to shut myself up again in this oak. When I’ve done that, not the devil himself can ever open this tree again. I should have used it long ago, but I didn’t think a few centuries would matter much, one way or another.”
“Oh, I’ll help you,” the wizard grunted. “That’ll be easy enough. I’ll take off the wet magic and protect you against Morgan and Vivienne—as I read your mind, that’s what you want. It won’t take long. Then I’ll just go back in my tree, and after I’ve used my new spell, it’ll be sealed inside and out. I can’t get out, ever, and nobody can ever get in. Arthur won’t need me, anyway, when he comes again. He’ll have Excalibur.”
There was a swoosh in the air behind Woodley. He whirled, to see Vivienne flying down at him, her hair streaming behind her. So the thunderclap of the oak’s opening had summoned her!
“Messire Arthur!” she shrilled. “So there you are!”
Merlin let out a whoop of dismay and stepped back into the tree. His voice rose in a hurried incantation.
“Somnus eternatis—”
There was a joyous shriek from Vivienne. “Merlin!” she screamed. “My love Merlin! At last!”
She swooped down, past Woodley, knocking the bowl from his hands. Merlin was inside the hollow oak, frantically intoning his spell. And then Vivienne had reached him, had flung her arms around the struggling wizard’s neck, was planting passionate kisses on his bearded cheeks—
Crash!
Lightning blazed; thunder rolled; and the oak slammed shut like two halves of a door. Woodley, automatically holding his breath, stood gaping at the tree. Merlin and Vivienne had vanished.
He scooped up the unbroken bowl and raced back to the stream, where he replenished it. His body was burning like fire, and he hastily splashed water upon himself. Then, the bowl refilled, he clambered up the bank to the tree and plucked seven oak leaves.
He repeated Bleys’ incantation, but nothing happened. He tried it again and again—six times in all. No use. Merlin and Vivienne were sealed within the oak.
Woodley went back and sat in a shallow pool, bending forward occasionally to breathe. Where his skin was exposed to the air, it was sheer agony. He longed to immerse his whole body, but the stream was too shallow here, and he could only pour water from the bowl over his skin. It didn’t help much.
If Merlin had only had time to take off the wet magic spell—if Vivienne had not arrived when she did—
Woodley gnawed at his lips. If he could only get help—
If he had only accepted Excalibur—
Help was far away. Woodley knew he had to stay near water, where he could replenish the bowl from time to time. With a hollow reed, he might contrive to aerate the water he carried with him, but he could not expose his skin to air for very long. Like a jellyfish, he could not live in sunlight and air.
If he could find a deep pool—
But there was none. The shallow stream raced steeply down the gorge without pausing. Only in the lake itself could Woodley survive.
“No,” he thought. “I’ll stay here. It’ll be an easier death. Bohart—”
But the weakness of his flesh betrayed him. Minute by minute the burning agony crawling along his skin became worse. It was intolerable—unendurable.
There was no other way. He must return to the lake. And—Morgan le Fay.
Woodley began to stumble down the gorge. After all, he need not go back to the castle itself. He could hide somewhere, under the water, where Morgan might not find him—
The cleft ended. Woodley’s feet splashed into deepening water.
For a very brief moment, he saw a mirage. It seemed to him that an arm, draped in white samite, rose from the smooth surface of the lake, and that it brandished a sword that flamed with intolerable brightness in the sunlight.
It was gone. Woodley splashed deeper. It was only a mirage.
No revisions—this time.
The grateful coolness of the water soothed his burning skin. It closed over his head. Woodley dropped flat on the lake bottom, luxuriating in the element that meant relief to his parched throat and lungs. For a long time he lay there, unconscious of his surroundings. It was enough merely to relax.
The lake grew darker. The sun dropped behind the peaks. An inquisitive trout investigated Woodley’s hair and flicked away as he stirred.
Merlin—Bleys—no help there. He must find a hiding place. That cave in the Shaking Rock. Morgan might not find him there.
His body was no longer afire. Slowly Woodley rose and began to descend the slope of the lake bottom. A green twilight surrounded him.
Then he saw—something—slowly stirring at his feet.
For a moment Woodley’s shocked eyes could not quite comprehend what he saw. He gave a little choking gasp of nausea. It was not the actual appearance of the—thing—so much as the unmistakable fact that it had once been Sir Bohart.
And it still lived, after a fashion.
Morgan’s chess game was finished.
Woodley shut his eyes, squeezing the lids tight together, as he fought down the sickness of his human flesh, revolting from that which Morgan had done. Through the dark came a voice.
“She plays at chess with Bleys now,” it said.
Woodley tried to speak, but could not. That which should have had no voice went on thickly:
“She dared not slay him before, since he held Excalibur for Arthur. But the hour for Arthur’s coming has passed, she said to me before I died, and she has no more fear.”
The thing did not speak again, for it had disintegrated.
Woodley opened his eyes then. The green twilight had darkened. He could see little, except a great black shadow far below that was the castle. To the right was another blot of darkness—the Shaking Rock, perhaps.
He could hide there—
No. Morgan would find him. Woodley half turned to retrace his steps, but remembrance of the agony he had suffered in air halted him. He could not endure that again.
But—it would be better than playing chess with Morgan. Woodley knew, at last, what that euphemism cloaked. Poor Bleys!
He thrust that thought, and the memory of Bohart, out of his mind. He knew, now, what he had to do. It was the only way. A clean, final solution, with sharp steel, thrust through his heart. It would be the period to his failure.
His hand went to his belt, but the sword was not there. He had removed it, Woodley remembered, in his apartment after the slaughter of the undine. Well—the dagger, then.
That, too, was gone. He was unarmed.
Briefly a racking sickness shook Woodley. He dared not remain alive now, to suffer the same fate as Bohart. Again he glanced back.
Well, he would not leave the lake again. It would mean unnecessary suffering. Somehow he would find a way to kill himself. Even if he had to enter the castle again—
It came to that, in the end. There was no other way. No weapons existed under the lake, except in Morgan’s stronghold. Woodley knew which door to use—the one Bleys had showed him. He was encouraged by the thought that he was not apt to encounter Morgan. She would be busy—
Nevertheless, he kept to the shadows as he crept along the corridor. A curious darkness seemed to have fallen over the castle. The vague, sourceless light had dimmed. It was utterly silent.
He saw no one—not even Nurmala, as he cautiously hurried to his apartment. But there were no weapons in evidence. They had been removed.
Well—there might be a dagger in Bleys’ room. He went there. The door was closed and locked, and Woodley dared not risk the noise of breaking it down.
The armory?
Fear mounted within him as he went through the castle. Something was crouching in the shadows, watching him. Worst of all was the thought that Morgan, somewhere here, was playing at chess with Bleys.
Bleys—Bohart—Morgan!
At the end of a hall he saw a door agape, and beyond it the sheen of steel. The armory, then. As he hurried forward, a curtain billowed out at his side, and Woodley froze, seeing what was embroidered on that white surface. A coiled snake, with a golden star above its lifte
d head. Morgan’s apartment.
Somehow Woodley crept past. Somehow he reached the armory, and chose a sword at random. An ordinary enough blade, but sharp. Not Excalibur, though. His lips twisted at the thought.
This would be a clean death. Or, perhaps, a dagger would be better. He selected one.
But his fingers remained curled about the sword hilt. He had forgotten how strangely satisfying it was to hold a blade. The weapon was like an extension of his own body, giving him a power he had not possessed before.
Woodley looked at the dagger. Then he thrust it into his belt. He hefted the sword.
Not Excalibur. He could never hope to hold Cut-Steel now. He could never hope to slay Morgan, or even to face her—
Woodley’s face changed. His hand tightened on the sword hilt. He was remembering his last words to Bleys.
“I think I’ve got a better idea. I’m going to try it, anyhow. If it doesn’t work, I’ll be back to fight Morgan.”
Fight her? Without Excalibur? The thought was mockingly hopeless. Yet, oddly, a curious sort of anger was beginning to glow within Woodley.
From the beginning, Morgan had had it all her own way. Everyone was afraid of her. Secure in her dark magic, she had done exactly as she liked, trampling roughshod over those who got in her way. Perhaps she had felt some fear that Arthur would come again, and destroy her. Now that menace was gone. Morgan was confident—and with reason.
No one had dared to oppose her. The thought of Morgan’s triumph now was suddenly unendurable to Woodley. She had not even troubled to follow and destroy him. She knew that he would skulk back, and perhaps kill himself to save her the trouble of . . . of crushing him, as she would crush a fly.
Bleys—Bohart—the thing that had been Bohart—Why had the armory door been left open? Had Morgan known what Woodley intended to do?
Sudden anger darkened his face. Damn her! He had failed—yes. But this—
Very well. He had to die; there was no possible escape now. But at least he could give Morgan the trouble of having to kill him herself!
Hot with anger, Woodley whirled and hurried back along the passage. At the white drapery he hesitated for a brief moment. Then he flung it aside and stepped across the threshold.
Collected Fiction Page 326