Morgana lowered her voice so only he could hear. “I know more than you or any other Watcher. I was there for the First Gathering. I wrote the oath.”
“That cannot be,” Merlin protested. “That was thousands of—”
“Over ten thousand years ago,” Morgana finished for him. “I have walked this planet longer than that. I stood in the shadow of the great spire of the temple of Atlantis. I saw Atlantis destroyed during the Great Civil War among the Airlia Gods. I came here to England and organized the rebellious high priests who became the first Watchers. I was there when the first stone was raised at Stonehenge. I have seen things of which you have no concept. I have fought these creatures, the Airlia, and their minions for all that time. And Gawain, whom you know, was there with me through all that.
“So I tell you, Merlin the Watcher, you must do as I order. You will take the Grail and Excalibur. You will travel to the roof of the world and hide them there. So that someday men can go there and claim them, but only when the time is right. When we are prepared to do battle with those who rule us from the shadows.”
“When will that be?” Merlin asked.
Morgana sighed. “A long, very long, time, I fear. Beyond the scope of your mortal life surely.” She reached inside her cloak and pulled out a chain. On it were two things. One was a small figure looking like two arms raised in prayer. The other was a medallion similar to the ones Merlin and the others wore, except hers was golden, like the Grail. “Do you recognize this?”
“I have read of it,” Merlin whispered, still trying to accept what she had told him. “It is the symbol of the head of our order. It is written that it disappeared a long time ago.”
“It did not disappear,” Morgana said. “I disappeared with it.”
“I do not understand this,” Merlin whispered.
“That is why you must do as I order. I founded the Watchers long ago and I still rule. I have the symbol.”
“Why do you not keep the Grail then?” Merlin asked.
“Because it is too tempting to me also,” Morgana said.
Merlin lowered his head and stood silent for a long time.
“You have only to look around you to see what happens when you meddle with things,” Morgana said. “Arthur is not who you think he is. Neither is Mordred. They are not men.”
“Arthur—” Merlin began, but fell silent, as the many strange things he had seen in the past decade fell into place.
“It is not time,” Morgana said. “You failed and many have died because of it. The burden is on you now to make things right. Or as right as they can be now.”
Merlin slowly nodded. “I will do as you say.”
Morgana held out the Grail. “Take it. Then go to Avalon and recover Excalibur. It will be in the possession of the Watcher who lives there, Brynn.” She reached into her cloak and pulled out a sheet of leather on which a map had been drawn. “This is where you must go.” She pointed.
Merlin tried to grasp the scale.
Morgana helped him by pointing to an island in the upper left hand corner. “This is England.” The destination she had indicated was far to the right and down.
“No one has ever gone that far,” Merlin protested.
“I have. And you will. It will be a noble quest, worthy of Arthur’s wizard.” Morgana handed the parchment to him and walked away, heading in the direction he had pointed to earlier.
She finally found the center of the battle. The corpses were piled three deep in places along a sandbar that rose out of the swamp. The sand was bleached red from blood. The smell of death was strong. The bodies had not had time to begin to decay but the odor of fresh blood and voided bowels was almost overwhelming. Morgana had seen — and dealt — much death in her long life but it had not hardened her heart.
She carefully stepped among the bodies, searching with both hope and trepidation.
She found Gawain where she had suspected he would be. In the very middle of what must have been a terrible fight. He was floating lifeless in the shallow water. Morgana grabbed one of his arms and with great effort pulled him clear of the other bodies. She could see he had been wounded at least a dozen times. His eyes were blank, staring with a dead gaze past her shoulder at nothing. Her hand began to tremble as she unbuckled his breastplate. An edged weapon had obviously hit Gawain horizontally just above the sternum, cutting through the metal, into the flesh beneath.
She lifted the front half of the upper body armor off Gawain and cried out in anguish as she saw that his ka had taken the blow as well. The front part of the arms had been sliced cleanly off. It was destroyed.
After so long, to have it end like this. In a stinking swamp, among bloody bodies. In a war that resolved nothing, a war caused by a fool who had not known what he was doing. After over ten thousand years. She could not believe it. Could not accept it. Morgana lifted her head up to the darkening sky as if she could see through the clouds and into space, across the light-years, to the very beginning, to the day when it should have ended, but had actually begun for both of them. She howled out her anguish like a stricken animal.
II
12,426 B.C. EARTH CALENDAR: CENTAURUS SPIRAL ARM, MILKY WAY GALAXY
It was the fourth planet from the star, nestled in that narrow orbit that allowed human life to flourish. It had been chosen for that reason. Once its land surface had been green and vibrant but now most of the ground had been blasted by the weapons of war. Blackened and broken terrain covered most of the four continents and once-proud cities were battered graveyards. Even the oceans had not escaped unscathed — large areas of the blue seas were tainted black and lifeless sea creatures floated on the surface. Where once a large island had held the Gods’ temple and city, there was only black water, floating debris, and bodies.
The war — actually a revolt — was all but over. In only one place was there still fighting. A walled compound, a mile and a half long by half a mile wide, surrounded a totally flat space. Inside the twenty-foot-high wall, set on a cradle of black metal, was the Airlia mothership, a cigar-shaped craft over a mile long and a quarter mile wide in the center. Its outer hull was also of black metal, but the skin was scarred and blistered from heavy weapons fire and blasts that had struck it.
Outside of the wall came the people. Hundreds of thousands of humans, the survivors of a worldwide army that had once numbered in the billions, surged forward. In the lead were the select few, teams of God-killers armed with the only weapons that could permanently kill their Airlia enemy.
Donnchadh was just behind the front wave of God-killers as they blew holes in the tall black wall that surrounded the landing field. She was a scientist, not a God-killer, but knew she needed to be near the front. They would need to move swiftly if they were to grasp success from the jaws of victory.
The first man through the nearest breach was hit with a golden bolt and knocked backward, dead. As was the second man. The third edged the muzzle of his weapon into the breach and fired blindly for several seconds on full automatic. The God-killers worked in teams of two — one man with an automatic weapon, the other with a sword. A strange, but necessary, combination in order to fight the Airlia.
Her name — Donnchadh — meant eldest daughter of Donn, who had been one of the first rebel leaders. He’d died at the hands of the human high priests who served their alien overlords, crucified on the wooden X, pinned to it by straps of wet leather that dried and squeezed the life out of him over the course of many hours. She’d watched him die over two years ago, as had thousands of other herded by the high priests and Guides who served the Airlia into the open plain in front of the very wall they had just blasted a hole in. The high priests and Guides were all dead now. There was just this last pocket of Airlia to kill and they would be free of the alien influence.
The next pair of God-killers threw themselves through the breach. The firing must have worked as there were no more golden bolts. Donnchadh scrambled after them. The man with the rifle was shooting as he leapt o
ver the body of the alien who had been firing the golden bolts from a long spear clutched in its hands.
The creature was taller than a human, almost seven feet from the top of its head to the soles of its feet. Red hair framed a thin face with ears that had long lobes that stretched almost to its shoulders. The eyes were not human, but catlike and red. The hands that gripped the spear had six long, pale fingers.
Blood was still seeping out of the wounds in the alien’s chest and, from experience, Donnchadh knew they had about five minutes before the creature came back to life and the wounds healed. The second God-killer with the sword was there to ensure that didn’t happen. He swung the weapon with an experienced hand and sliced through the alien’s neck, severing head from body. It was not simply that the head had been removed that prevented the creature from coming back to life. There was something on the edge of the sword, stolen from an Airlia armory, that cauterized the wound and prevented the cells from regenerating as they would from the wound caused by a human-made weapon.
Looking left and right, Donnchadh could see that there were other holes blown in the wall, and more God-killer teams were pouring through them. The prize of the mothership was directly ahead.
The man with the rifle was hit by a golden bolt from an Airlia standing near one of the cradle’s legs. He was knocked backward and went down hard. Donnchadh darted forward and scooped up the rifle. She put the stock to her shoulder and fired as she’d been trained. The recoil of the gun felt satisfying, almost as much as watching the Airlia stagger as the rounds tore into its flesh.
The aliens were trapped. The mothership could not take off because the humans had already taken over the Master Guardian and isolated the ship’s controls. They had destroyed the mothership’s warships, the Talons, one by one over the course of the Revolution. It had cost billions of lives to get to this point. The planet was ravaged, the environment destroyed. Better that than slavery. But Donnchadh believed they had once last chance to make things right, to save her people.
Donnchadh reached the cradle leg and pressed her body tight against the metal. The arc was ten feet wide and deep, towering overhead to the bottom of the starship. The God-killer with the sword met her there, pausing to finish off the alien she had shot. He was a large man, solidly built, with long black hair that hung down almost to his shoulders. His face was like a block of granite, marred only by the fracture of a scar that ran from the corner of his right eye down to his chin.
“Gwalcmai,” he said, introducing himself as he searched the metal with his free hand.
She was doing the same. “Donnchadh.” She found an indentation. “Here.” She grabbed the medallion around her neck and pressed it against the spot. The outline of a door appeared, eight feet high by four wide. It slid open and an elevator beckoned.
“Wait for help,” Gwalcmai advised.
Donnchadh shook her head. “We cannot wait. They may destroy the ship. If it explodes, it will take the continent with it. We have to find out the truth. And the Grail should be inside.” She went into the elevator. Gwalcmai followed without hesitation. The door slid shut and they began to move up the massive strut.
“Too slow,” Donnchadh muttered.
“Be ready.” Gwalcmai nodded toward the door.
They came to a halt. Gwalcmai cursed as the wall behind them opened, catching them by surprise. Both whirled about to face an empty corridor. They edged forward cautiously. The corridor curved slightly to the left and they could only see about fifty feet.
Donnchadh kept the stock of the rifle tight against her shoulder as they moved ahead. The corridor straightened out and they both paused. The corridor extended as far as they could see, apparently running the entire length of the mothership. There was nothing moving. They could also see cross corridors intersecting at regular intervals.
Having been at the lead of a massive army, the two suddenly felt quite isolated. Donnchadh reached into her shirt and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper. Gwalcmai watched the move, then hurriedly shifted his gaze when she noted him watching. To her surprise, after so much battling and death, she found herself blushing. She brushed away the feeling quickly.
“One of your kind died getting this information,” she said as she unrolled it.
“Many of my kind have died,” Gwalcmai said as he knelt next to her. There were not many God-killers left, so many having been killed in the line of duty. Fighting at the forefront of every attack, as they did, most God-Killers did not expect to live long lives. Either Gwalcmai was very good at what he did or very lucky; most likely both, in order to be alive.
“The engines are centrally located and below,” Donnchadh said as she ran her finger along the map they had captured from an Airlia outpost. “The control room forward.”
Both knew that any surviving Airlia would set some sort of self-destruct, taking out not only the ship but all the humans around it.
“Since we cut off the control room,” Gwalcmai said, “any destruct would have to be done manually.”
Donnchadh stood. “The engine room.”
They ran forward, both slightly hunched over, expecting to be ambushed from one of the side corridors that in their haste they could not take the time to clear. Donnchadh was counting the passageways, trying to stay oriented.
She skidded to a halt and pointed right. “Here.” A short corridor came to a dead end.
“Where—” Gwalcmai began as they moved forward, but he cut off whatever else he was going to say as the section of floor beneath them suddenly began to descend.
Unlike their trip up the strut, this elevator moved swiftly, straight down into the bowels of the ship. Black walls on all four sides sped past. Without a word the two went back-to-back in the center of the platform. Through her sweat-soaked combat uniform Donnchadh could feel the heat of Gwalcmai’s body. A drop of sweat from a strand of his long hair dripped onto her neck.
Their knees flexed as the platform suddenly decelerated. The surrounding walls disappeared as they entered a large open area. The curving bottom of the ship was below them. The chamber was almost a half mile long by a third wide, the bottom slice of the ship. All along the inner edge of the hull running the length of the chamber were long machines — the engines, they had to assume. The surfaces of the machines were striated, composed of long metal strings that had been twisted together.
“There.” Even as she said it, Donnchadh aimed the rifle.
About a hundred meters in front of her, an Airlia stood atop one of the strands, a hatch open in front of it. Donnchadh fired a burst, but her aim was low, the rounds ricocheting off the metal. The creature acted as if nothing had happened, continuing to do whatever it was focused on. Donnchadh pulled the trigger again, but the weapon was empty. In her haste she had forgotten to take extra ammunition from the body.
Gwalcmai didn’t hesitate, rushing past her toward the Airlia. Donnchadh followed, tossing aside the useless weapon and drawing the short black dagger with which she had originally been armed. A ladder was built into the side of the engine strand about halfway between them and the creature and Gwalcmai bounded up it, Donnchadh right behind. Once on top, they had to leap from strand to strand.
The Airlia glanced up and saw them coming. It was not dressed like one of the Airlia soldiers. It wore a white linen robe over which there was a sleeveless shirt of blue and on top of that a long cloak of many colors. The shoulders of the cloak were fastened with what appeared to be glittering stones. Over it was a breastplate covered with more precious stones. On the creature’s head was a crown consisting of three bands.
A gasp escaped Donnchadh’s lips as the Airlia lifted up a chalice-shaped golden object. “The Grail,” she cried out.
Gwalcmai needed no further urging. Every human on the planet knew it was their only hope. The Airlia’s lips were moving as if it were saying some sort of prayer. It set the Grail down on the metal in front of it and reached into the shoulders of the breastplate, removing two glowing stones.
Donnchadh and Gwalcmai were now within twenty meters of the creature. They could clearly see one end of the Grail iris open and the creature place a stone inside. It then flipped the Grail over and did the same on the other side.
Gwalcmai lifted his sword high as he leapt from the last strand to the one on which the Airlia stood. The alien was now holding the Grail out over the open hatch. Gwalcmai swung the sword even as he was still airborne, the blade horizontal, slicing through the Airlia’s neck. As the head toppled from the body, Donnchadh dived low from the last strand, hands outstretched, reaching for the Grail.
Even in the moment of final death, the Airlia’s body did its duty. Its fingers separated, letting go of the Grail. Donnchadh was a fraction of a second too late as the golden object tumbled down into the open hatch. She landed hard, almost falling into the opening herself.
She looked down. There was a pulsing stream of golden power about five meters below. She watched with wide eyes as the Grail hit the stream. There was a flash and the entire ship shook for several moments.
The Grail was gone.
The skin on Donnchadh’s face was red and blistered from the surge in power she had witnessed when the Grail was destroyed. She was in the control room of the mothership, the room filled with other God-killers and scientists. The sense of victory in killing the last of the Airlia was muted by the loss of the Grail, and many a glance was directed at her, accompanied by muttered words.
“It was my fault,” Gwalcmai said, loud enough to be heard not only by Donnchadh but by most in the control room. “I should not have struck as quickly.”
“If you had not, it would have dropped it anyway,” Donnchadh said. “I was too late in—”
A new voice cut him off. “It was no one’s fault.”
A wheelchair-bound woman in a black robe tinged with silver was wheeled into the control room. Everyone inclined their heads toward her as a sign of respect. Her name was Enan and she was the leader of the humans. Her legs and arms were gone, amputated many years ago. She had survived the X-cross and leather bands long enough to be rescued after the Airlia who had put her there thought she was dead and left her body to be picked apart by scavenger birds. Rebels had sneaked up to the cross just after dark and cut her loose. Her limbs, broken and dead from lack of blood, had been removed by a surgeon, and she’d been nursed back to health.
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