Dust and debris fell from my clothes and hair, and on seeing my reflection I noticed that the day’s exertions had left me looking far from presentable. I washed my face and cleaned my cuts and grazes as best I could, placing my bloodied hands under the soothing water. My reflection broke as the surface rippled. Over my shoulder, I thought I had seen the distorted form of a hooded figure. I stood up, but the figure vanished, and the rotten stench of a stagnant pond filled my nostrils. My reflection reformed and a hideous apparition was revealed at my shoulder, as if I had suddenly grown a sinister Siamese twin. Its neck and head were that of a cockerel, but its face was human, set in an expression of pure loathing. It tilted back its head like a snake preparing to strike, and would surely have done so, had a pair of hands not clamped around its throat and broken its neck with one twist. In the same movement, those hands scooped up the dreadful creature and hurled it into the bushes where it landed out of sight.
“Cockatrice,” said Sir Pellinore. Turning to thank him, I realised he had performed the entire motion with his back turned to the beast. “Never look at one. Give it a glance, just one, and you’re finished.” The bushes rustled, presumably the cockatrice in its final throes. Sir Pellinore plucked a wooden stake from inside his jacket and hurled it at the sound, cutting the movement dead. Immediately he snapped a branch from a tree and began to whittle a new weapon with his knife, his eyes roving ceaselessly at the forest around us.
“I am glad to have caught up with you, Sir Pellinore. There is much to convey. I am in urgent need of your assistance in matters of beast lore —”
Sir Pellinore stopped carving and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Herne?” His eyes were red raw and ringed with shadows, his voice thickened as if by a heavy cold.
“It is Sir Lucas, Sir Pellinore.”
“I call for Herne but he does not heed me.” A twig snapped to our right and Sir Pellinore whirled around, brandishing the half-finished spear.
“We need your help, Sir Pellinore. You and Sir Perceval —”
“The forces of Hell took Perceval. Took him and the Grail, when the thunderbolt struck; off to Annwn they went. I was thrown clear by the boom. When I awoke, I tried to follow, but the critters had me surrounded. Fearsome critters, butler, the likes of which I’ve never seen. Lobster Cats and Cricket Bats. Tweezer-stealers and Grockle-grabbers. The Lesser-spotted Karantamagentis. Wolf Gulls. Sand Witches.” Sir Pellinore gripped me by the lapels. Large tears rolled down his cheeks. “The Dancing Dogs of Denby!” he rasped.
He let me go and began to pace the ground with his now-finished spear. “Never clapped eyes on any of ’em before, yet their names fill my head. And they knew me. Oh they knew me, alright. They were driven after me! Chivvied, I was, by the Beast itself. Yes, the Questing Beast is abroad, butler. It bays for my soul, sending forth its heralds to run me to ground.” The wind moved the trees to our left, accompanied by the distant sound of barking dogs. “But I will achieve that quest, or bleed the best blood of my body!” The yapping grew louder. With a pitiful howl, Sir Pellinore ran off through the undergrowth. Something shook the tops of the trees and a shadow seemed to flit over my head and follow after him, but with its passing the yelping faded.
I hesitated to give chase, unsure of what to do next. Remembering what Sir Pellinore had said of the fate of Sir Perceval and the Grail, I wondered if I might now teleport to them. But when I touched the amulet, I was unable to picture them in my mind’s eye, their physical reality obscured as if by an impenetrable mist. They had passed out of range; or perhaps into a realm where such concepts ceased to have any meaning. I shuddered at the thought; and then had an idea. Might the amulet work on Merlin? After all, he was now in the physical world.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture him. At first it was the same as with Sir Perceval and the Grail. But slowly, an image began to form, the outline of a dark cowled head. I felt my fingers tingle and my ears block up as if I were on the verge of teleporting — and for the briefest moment I felt as if I had — but then I hit an obstruction, as if I had run into the mental equivalent of a brick wall. I concentrated my entire mind to the task, but it was like trying to break through the wall using a teaspoon. Eventually I gave up and opened my eyes, disappointed, but not surprised, to find that I was still in the forest. I resolved to lay the matter of locating Merlin, as well as the rest of the day’s transpirations, before the Master. To that end, I teleported back to Camelot.
†
I materialised in the infirmary, where I heated some water and applied herbs and salves to my wounds, before gathering together such items, along with a stock of fresh linen, into a first aid kit that we could take with us to assist our comrades in the field. I had decided to first seek Sir Kay, hoping to receive his advice on how best to place my considerable burden of information before the Master.
As I was bandaging my right arm, I noticed an envelope addressed to myself, propped in front of one of the infirmary’s examining mirrors. Even before I broke the wax seal, the ornate calligraphy announced the penmanship as Sir Kay’s. I unfolded the parchment within, and read the following.
Dear Lucas,
If you are reading this, I can only assume you have returned to Camelot in one piece (though how you managed it is quite beyond me). I have therefore left this note in the infirmary as, if indeed you can still walk, you will certainly be making it your first port of call.
After you left, the King’s mood darkened to pitch black. My suggestion that we sally forth to seek news of Perceval and Pellinore, whose fates lay heavy on my heart, was not well received. Neither was my more moderate compromise, that we at least take a look at our immediate surroundings beyond the Camelot walls. Finally, when I proposed that our time would be well spent in drafting an official speech announcing his return to the world, Arthur picked up my inkwell and flung it into the fireplace, stating that he would condescend to a brief look at our surroundings, in disguise, if it would put an end to my ‘ceaseless prattle.’ We made our way across the battlements. From there we could see the reconstructed town of Cardigan, fenced in, as it were, by a line of sleeping bodies under the enchantment you had previously observed, Lucas. This spell did not affect us, however, as we discovered when the King forced me to test it. And so we passed its invisible boundary and proceeded into the town.
Save for those fifty or so who slept outside Camelot, not a soul did we find in the whole place. It was most eerie, Lucas. The citizens’ departure had been made in haste, for in several of the houses we entered, the doors had been left wide open, and television sets remained switched on. You should know, Lucas, that it was by such means that the King discovered what he later described as your ‘vile treason.’
Every channel was given over to news of the breach of the Otherworld, though they did not know it as such, preferring such grandiloquent terms as ‘Armageddon’ and ‘The Apocalypse.’ The most prevalent pictures consisted of footage taken from a helicopter at a distance, of Lancelot and Gawain grappling with dragons in the sky, and then an image of you alone, Lucas, taken from ground level, clinging to a beast as it flew through the streets of Cardiff. I did not see any more, for the King exploded into a high rage because you had not sought Merlin as he commanded. He threw a chair at the television set and stormed back to Camelot, locking himself within the Royal Tower, where he presumably still resides.
Well, for all I care, he can stay there. These past few hours have stretched my patience to the limit, and I have decided to throw in my lot with Sir Lancelot etc., for better or worse. If I should, as a result of this, receive a little of the attention due to me as the author of The History of King Arthur and His Noble Knights, the most influential work of Arthurian literature ever committed to paper, then that is all by the by.
I remain yours,
Sir Kay
I refolded the letter, a half-tied bandage dangling like a cobweb from my arm. I walked behind the examining mirror and down a hidden staircase into Lower Camelot, then through
its passageways to the foundations of the Royal Tower. I stepped into the lift that would take me up to the Master’s chambers on the top floor. Sir Kay’s tidings had given me cause for great self reproach, and I severely regretted my recent actions. However, I was certain that once I had fully explained the events of the past few hours to the Master, he would see that I had only been acting in his best interests, as well as those of the Eternal Quest. The lift came to a stop behind a tapestry, and I stepped into the room.
The Master sat with his back to me, in a chair in front of the fire. I cleared my throat, but he did not stir, and so I started to walk towards him.
“Stay where you are, Lucas.”
“Sire. I bring much news —”
“News of Merlin?”
“Not of Merlin as yet, sire, but —”
“Then why do you return?”
“Events have progressed, and not altogether for the best. But with your leadership, I am sure that the Eternal Quest —”
“Leadership? I gave you my leadership when I asked you to seek Merlin.”
“I did try, sire, but a wizard abroad runs to his own itinerary.”
“You did not try. Instead, you chose to give aid to those knights who have abandoned the Eternal Quest to meet their destiny alone.”
“With respect, sire —”
“Do not sully the word, Lucas. Your actions prove you know nothing of respect. I saw it with my own eyes. You have made our troubles a thousand times worse.”
“I am sorry, sire.”
“You are dismissed.”
“Very good, sire. Should you require anything, I will be in my quarters.”
“No, Lucas. You are dismissed from my service. Perhaps the word ‘banished’ might make more sense to you? Very well then. You are henceforth banished from Camelot.”
“Sire?”
“There is no place on the Eternal Quest for the disloyal.”
“But sire —”
“Just go. Go, and join your fellow traitor knights.”
I stepped back into the alcove and pulled the lever.
“As you wish, sire,” I said, and descended to the lower levels.
Day Four
I
It is often said that charity begins at home, and the very same rule applies to housekeeping. That is not meant to be a joke; nor do I think it is stating the obvious. On the contrary, it is surprising the number of times this basic principle is ignored by those who should know better. Even I, with the experience of an exceedingly long lifetime under my belt, am occasionally guilty of failing to measure up to the mother of all domestic maxims.
Upon leaving the Master, the counterweighted lift had conveyed me down into the bedrock at the central heart of the lower levels, where my old living quarters had been situated. My first thought on entering was that a gang of thieves had somehow managed to get past the sleeping enchantment and ransacked my room. The bed was a bombsite, devoid of pillows, quilt halfway to a stone floor whose existence could only be guessed at, obscured beneath clothes cascading like a waterfall over the side of the laundry basket. My few personal effects were apparently of little interest to the burglars, as these had been left in random piles, small islands in a wide sartorial sea.
A moment’s reflection yielded a more rational explanation. From everything I had seen thus far, Camelot had been reconstructed exactly as we had left it. There was no reason to doubt that this same principle also applied to the lower levels. It was not the state of my quarters that was in question, so much as my own memory of them. For, now that I came to think of it, we had left in rather a hurry. There had been so much to organise before we set off on the Grail Quest, and at such short notice, that it had been necessary to entrust run-of-the-mill domestic tasks to other hands. My belongings were arranged in such a higgledy piggledy manner because I had been forced to decide what to take and what to leave in great haste, my own packing needs coming second to that of the expedition. I realised that I was now being presented with an opportunity rarely found in the domestic realm — to finish a task which necessity had dictated I abandon. A thorough spring clean of my old quarters would do much to clear my head and help me decide how best to proceed.
When it comes to the whole matter of spring-cleaning, the first thing to be thrown out should be one’s sentimentality. So-called keepsakes are, indeed, items kept merely for the sake of it, clung onto out of a misplaced affection for what is really only worthless junk. With this dictum as my guide, I had soon filled the lift with the miscellaneous clutter of yesteryear. Overalls that were several sizes too small. Aprons re-patched so many times that no scrap of the original garment remained. An old glass and sand egg timer, cracked and useless. All this I transferred by the armful via the lift to the Upper Courtyard, where I arranged it in orderly piles against the base of the Royal Tower.
After several hours’ work I stood up and stretched. To the west, the sun was setting. I became suddenly aware of a tremendous weariness in my bones. It had been days now since I had experienced anything like a substantial sleep. Although the Grail’s regeneration was most invigorating, it was no substitute for a good night’s rest. And now that the Grail had gone, who could say what the effect on our physical frame might be? I pushed the unsettling thought aside. I would be of little use to my fellow knights as an exhausted husk, whatever fate had befallen them. Moreover, a new day might also bring about a cooling of the Master’s temper. And so I left the pile of rubbish neatly stacked against the tower, and returned to my quarters.
But rest proved to be elusive. I am not the sort of person who usually remembers their dreams. I certainly have them, for I often wake to find myself tangled up in my sheets as if I had been fighting off some phantom assailant. This time, however, my imaginings were as clear as day. Indeed, so vivid was the nightmare, that if I were a more fanciful man I would describe it more as a waking vision.
As soon as I got into bed I slipped into a delirium. I have occasionally experienced such a state after a particularly strenuous day, when my physically exhausted body craves sleep, but my overactive mind is having none of it. Usually, this involves the playing back of select events as if on a cinema screen, as a prelude to the blessed release of unconsciousness. But on this occasion my mind was positively teeming with sights and sounds. Flights and fist fights. Dragon flames and fireballs. Ships and castles, magic spells and peculiar wonders.
At the same time, a second film flickered beneath it all, like an old black-and-white movie struggling for my attention behind the Technicolor bombast of a modern blockbuster. Try as I might, I could make out nothing of the obscured classic, as every time I was on the verge of seeing something, the entire picture would freeze, before vanishing like a lost memory.
After several of these scenes had gone by, I realised with a jolt that the motion picture was not taking place in my mind at all. It was playing out around my bed, in three-dimensional life. The entire story was being manipulated by a cloaked figure that stood in the corner of my room. At times this mysterious director would glide around, picking up images like picture frames and slotting them into place around me according to his secret artistic vision. Or he would pile up a series of scenes in his hands like a deck of cards, shuffle them in a blur of light, and spread them out in a fan before gleefully dealing them into the air. His face was hidden by a large hood, and it was some time before I realised that this was Merlin himself.
Despite my reservations concerning the wizard and his ways, I was overjoyed at the prospect of bringing him to the Master and restoring my standing in his eyes. I sat up in bed and attempted to ask him if he knew anything of the nature of our dire need and the circumstances of his summoning. But when I opened my mouth, the wizard simply plucked the questions out of me, inserting my words into the procession of pictures like the framed speech captions in a silent film. At last the intensity of the images subsided, and I seemed to wake up, though the hooded director was still with me, standing at the foot of my bed. Not dar
ing to speak again, I leaned forwards and pulled back the hood. I caught only the briefest glimpse of the wizard’s chin before the entire face turned into the spiteful snarling features of the cockatrice. I awoke with a startled yell, falling sideways out of bed.
By rights I should have been more exhausted than ever. But though I was far from fully refreshed, I did not feel significantly worse for my phantasmagorical fever. The question was, had a night’s rest made any improvement to the Master’s temperament? I decided it was a little too early to risk finding out, and that it was better for me to seek his forgiveness with something to show for myself. In all the activity of my first teleportation, I had been denied the opportunity to reunite the company, that we might stand as one body and repair the damage to the Eternal Quest. The mere thought of success in this venture was enough to lift my spirits. I buffed my shoes to a serviceable shine. Then I took the amulet from the bedside picture hook on which I had hung it, and marshalled my mind towards Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain.
II
I found myself looking down on a large field, surrounded on all sides by rows of tiered seating. The arrangement bore such a strong resemblance to the tournament grounds to the rear of the Royal Tower that I wondered if the amulet had merely transported me to a different part of Camelot. But as my eyes took in everything else around me, several details confirmed this to be a different place entirely. A broad canopy extended over the field, forming an unnatural metallic sky. Floodlights served as the sun, illuminating a turf that was not divided into standard jousting lanes, but set up to accommodate sport of a more modern variety.
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