“What do you want?” Arthur asked.
“Give me the key. I will keep it safe.”
“My people will keep the key safe,” Arthur replied, his eyes shifting up to the dark clouds. “Merlin gave it to me to offset the Grail. It was never intended to be used and it hasn’t been. You don’t even know what it really does.”
“Merlin never should have unearthed the key or the Grail,” Brynn said. “He is one of those that upset the balance in the first place.”
“I tried to do good,” Arthur said. “To rectify what was done. To restore the balance.”
There was a commotion among the knights watching the water. Cries of alarm that Brynn and Arthur could hear.
“And what if the others get here first?” Brynn hissed. “A group bearing Mordred’s insignia has just been sighted. Would you give them Excalibur and what it controls? I promise to keep the key safe inside the tor. They will never find it. And when your people come at the anointed time, I will giveit to them. Remember, we only watch, we do not choose sides.”
“No.”
Brynn placed his hand on Arthur’s forehead. “You will be dead soon.”
“I will not give it to you.”
Brynn’s hand slid down and with two fingers he snatched at Arthur’s left eye before the king could react. Between the fingers dangled a small sliver of blue, a contact lens, incongruous with the armor and other accouterments. Arthur blinked and his eyes opened wide, revealing a red pupil within a red iris in his left eye. The pupil was a shade darker than the iris and elongated vertically like a cat’s.
Brynn cocked his head, indicating the knights. “I will show them what you really are. You cannot allow that. What good you have done, what you are so proud of, would be washed away with that truth. You will be remembered as a monster, not a king. Not as the leader of the Round Table, which you worked so hard to establish.”
Arthur closed his eyes, pain finally beginning to show on his face. “What about the Grail?”
“Mordred’s men had it briefly. He too lies dying. One of my order was in their camp and she recovered the Grail. She will take it far from here. We will return everything to the way it was.”
“Do not lie to me.”
“I swear on my ring”—Brynn held a metal ring in front of the king’s face, an eye, a human one, etched on the surface— “and on my order and on my son, the next Brynn, the next Watcher, that I tell you the truth.”
One of the knights cried out from the tor’s tower, warning that the group bearing Mordred’s colors was about to land.
Arthur’s voice was low, as if he were speaking to himself. “That is all I sought by coming to England. To reinstate order, and maybe help your people a little.”
“Then let me finish it,” Brynn argued. “Let me restore the truce, Artad’s Shadow.”
The king started at the mention of his true identity. “You must keep that secret. I have worked very hard for a very long time to keep that secret from men.”
“I will. If you give me the key. There is not much time. I must get back inside the tor to keep Mordred’s men from getting the key.”
Arthur’s hand released its grip. “Take it.”
Brynn placed Excalibur under his robe, tight against his body. As he prepared to stand, Arthur grabbed his arm. “Keep your word, Watcher. You know I will be back.”
Brynn nodded. “I know that. It is written that your war will come again, not like this, a local thing, but covering the entire planet. And when that happens, I know you will return.”
A weary smile crossed Arthur’s lips. “It is a war beyond the planet, Watcher. Beyond the planet in ways you could not conceive of. Your people still know so little. Even on Atlantis your ancestors knew nothing of reality, of the universe. Merlin was foolish to try to take the Grail. Its time has not yet come.”
“We know enough,” Brynn said. He stood and quickly walked through the open door, which swung shut behind him with a solid thud.
Percival approached the king. “Sire, the enemy approaches. We must move you.”
Arthur shook his head, his eyes closed tightly. “No. I will stay here. All of you go. Spread the story of what we tried to do. Tell of the good, of the code of honor. Leave me here. I will be gone shortly.”
The protests were immediate, Percival’s foremost among them. “Sire, we will fight Mordred’s traitors to the death. Our lives for yours.”
“No. It is my last command and you will obey it as you have obeyed all my other commands.”
Only then did Percival notice the sword was gone. “Excalibur! Where is it?”
“The monk has it.” Arthur’s voice was very low. “He will keep it safe until it is needed again. Until I return. And I will. I promise you that. Go now! Escape while you can and tell the world of the good deeds we did.”
One by one, the surviving knights bid their king farewell and slipped into the storm, disappearing over the western side of the hill until only Percival remained. He came to the king, kneeling next to him. “Sire.”
Arthur didn’t open his eyes. “Percival, you must leave also. You have been my most faithful knight, but I release you from your service.”
“I swore an oath,” Percival said, “never to abandon you. I will not now, my lord.”
“You must. It will do you no good to stay. You cannot be here when they come for me.”
“I will fight Mordred’s men.”
“I do not speak of those slaves who blindly obey with no free will.”
Percival frowned. “When who comes for you, then?”
Arthur reached up and grabbed his knight’s arm. “There is something you can do, Percival. Something I want you to do. A quest.”
Percival placed his hand over the blood-spattered one of his king. “Yes, lord.”
“Search for the Grail.”
“The Grail is but a legend—” Percival began, but Arthur cut him off.
“The Grail is real. It is—” The king seemed to be searching for the right words. “It is the source of all knowledge. To one who knows its secret, it brings immortality. It is beyond anything you have experienced, what any man has experienced.”
A glimmer of hope came alive in the despair that had shadowed Percival’s eyes since removing Arthur from the field of battle. “Where is this Grail, my lord? Where should I search?”
“That you must discover on your own. It is spoken of in many lands and has traveled far — here and there — over the years. But trust me, it does exist. It will be well guarded. And if you find it—” Arthur paused.
“Yes, my lord?”
“If you find it, you must not touch it. You must guard it as you have guarded me. Will you do that for me?”
“I do not want to abandon you, my lord.”
“You will not be abandoning me. I go to a better place. Do as I have ordered.”
Slowly and reluctantly, Percival stood, bent over, his hand still in the king’s. “I will begin the quest you have commanded me to pursue.”
Arthur tightened his grip. “My knight, there is something you must remember in your quest.”
“Yes, lord?”
“You can trust no one. Deception has always swirled about the Grail. Be careful.” He released Percival. “Go now! I order you to go!”
Percival leaned over farther and lightly kissed his king’s forehead, then stood and departed.
Arthur was alone on the top of the tor. Only then did he open his eyes once more. He could hear yells from the eastern slope — Mordred’s mercenaries and slaves climbing the steep hillside, but his eyes remained focused on the sky above, waiting.
A metallic golden orb, three feet in diameter, darted out ofthe clouds and came to an abrupt halt, hovering ten feet above Arthur. It stayed there for a few seconds, then without a sound, sped to the east. There were flashes of light in that direction, screams of surprise and terror, then no more noise from the rebel warriors. Arthur was now the only one alive on the Tor.
The
orb came back and hovered directly overhead. Arthur looked past it, waiting, holding on to life. Finally, a silver disk, thirty feet wide, flat on the bottom, the upper side sloping to a rounded top, floated silently out of the clouds.
The disk touched down on the tor’s summit, next to the abbey. A hatch on the top opened and two tall figures climbed out. The Ones Who Wait made their way down the sloping side. The shape inside their one-piece white suits indicated they were female, but their eyes were not human but the same red in red as Brynn had revealed Arthur’s to be.
They walked to where the king lay, one standing on either side. They pulled back their hoods, revealing fiery red hair, cut tight against their skulls. Their skin was pale, ice-white, unblemished.
“Where is the key?” one asked, the voice low-pitched.
“A Watcher took it,” Arthur said. “I gave it to him. We must hide it to restore the truce.”
“Are you sure, Artad’s Shadow?” one of the women asked. “We can search for it. The Watchers cannot be trusted. Merlin was one of their order.”
“I am sure,” Arthur cut her off. “It is the way I want it to be. Merlin, no matter what evil he stirred up, was trying to do a good thing. Have you heard of the Grail’s fate?”
“Mordred’s mercenaries had it, but a Watcher in the area took it. We can take the Grail from him.”
“No.”
The two creatures exchanged glances.
“The truce must be restored,” Arthur continued. “It is not yet time.” Arthur slumped back, satisfied that at least that part of what Brynn had told him was true. He knew he could not tell them of the quest he had given Percival. It was the only thing he could think of to get his favorite knight off the tor. If Percival had been there when the others arrived, he would have suffered the same fate as Mordred’s men. Arthur knew his knight would never track down the Grail, but it gave the man a purpose and he had found that such a quest worked well with men like that.
“And Aspasia’s Shadow?” Arthur asked.
“Mordred too dies in this life, but Guides are there, as we are here, to pass Aspasia’s spirit on.”
A spasm of pain passed through Arthur’s body. “Let’s be done with it. I am very tired. Remember, I am only a Shadow also.”
The two looked at each other once more, red eyes meeting, then the first nodded and spoke. “The spirit of Artad must move on,”
“The spirit of Artad must pass on,” the second said.
Arthur nodded. “My spirit must pass on.”
The second knelt, a short black blade in her hand. It easily sliced through the dented armor on Arthur’s chest with one smooth stroke, revealing the padded shirt underneath. With a deft flick of knife, the cloth parted, revealing his chest. Lying on the flesh was a gold medallion, shaped like two arms with no body extended upward in worship. She cut through the thin chain holding the medallion and held it up for the other woman — and Arthur — to see.
“We take your spirit, the spirit of Artad,” she said to Arthur.
The king nodded weakly. “The spirit of Artad passes.” His head bowed down on his chest, his lips moving, but no sound emerging.
“Are you ready to finish the shell that sustained this life?” the first woman asked.
Arthur closed his eyes. “I am ready.”
“Is there anything since the last time you merged with the ka that you need to tell us?”
Arthur shook his head, knowing his silence would ensure that when his spirit was passed on, there would be no memory of Percival’s quest, which would guard the knight for the rest of his life. It was his last thought.
The black blade slammed down into the exposed chest, piercing his heart. The body spasmed once, then was still. The woman stood and placed the blade back in its sheath.
The other woman extended a gloved hand, fist clenched, over the body. The fingers moved, as if crushing something held in it. She spread her fingers and small black droplets, the size of grains of sand, fell onto the king. The droplets hit flesh, armor, and cloth. Where it fell on the latter two, they moved swiftly across the surface until they reached flesh. Where they touched skin, they consumed, boring through and devouring flesh, bone, muscle, everything organic. Within ten seconds nothing was left of the king but his armor.
With no further ceremony, the two swiftly retraced their steps to the craft they had arrived on. It lifted and swiftly accelerated away, disappearing into the storm clouds.
The heavens finally let loose with rain, announcing the arrival with a cacophonous barrage of thunder, lightning playing across the top of the tor. A large bolt struck the high tower of the abbey, shattering stone and mortar, spraying the debris over the remains of the king.
STONEHENGE
The gentle breeze blowing across the Salisbury plain carried the thick smoke produced by wood and burning flesh over the megalithic stones. It also brought the screams of the condemned and the chants of the Druid priests. The sun had set two hours earlier, but the stones were lit in the glow of the burning wicker man. Over fifteen meters high, the skeleton of the effigy was made of two thick logs serving as main supports up through the legs, reaching to the shoulders, from which crossbeams had been fixed with iron spikes. The skin consisted of wicker laced through the outer wooden frame.
Inside the “skin,” in a jumble of torsos, limbs and heads, were people. Crammed in so that each could hardly move. Some were upright, others sideways, and others upside down, filling every square meter of the interior.
Around the wicker man’s feet were bundles of straw that had just been set on fire, the flames licking up the legs, burning those who filled out the calves and thighs. Their screams of pain mixed with the pleading of those above them, all of which fell on deaf ears as the priests and priestesses who surrounded the wicker man concentrated on their chanting and dancing.
There were four distinct groups surrounding the wicker man, each one oriented on a cardinal direction. To the north they wore yellow robes, signifying air. To the west, blue for water. To the east, green for earth. And to the south, between the wicker man and the mighty stones, they wore red, signifying fire. With the great King Arthur and his foe Mordred newly dead, there was chaos in the land and the Druids had come out of their hiding places to resume their ancient rites.
Those inside the wicker man were all who had received a sentence of death over the course of the past year. Criminals and nonbelievers, and those who had served the king in the local area in suppressing the old religions and collecting taxes. The sentence was being carried out this evening through the purifying flame.
The burning of the condemned was just the beginning of the night’s activities. After the flames died down, the Druids would move to the south, to the standing stones. While the Druids now claimed the stones as their holy place, no one gathered around the wicker man really knew who had placed the inner circles of megaliths or why.
There were legends, of course. Of Gods who had ruled a land in the middle of the ocean, a place called Atlantis. Of war among Gods, and how their battles soon became man’s. Of priests who came to England from over the sea. Some spoke of sorcerers and magicians moving the massive stones with the power of their minds. Merlin, the counselor of the king, was said to have had something to do with the stones when he was young, hundreds of years earlier. There were even whispers of those who were not human and the Undead walking the Earth, but such talk was mixed with tales of pixies and fairies and other strange creatures. There was even a tale that the center, most massive stones, had been brought up out of the Earth, sprouting like plants at the command of the Gods.
The screams grew louder as the flames rose higher on the wicker man, their volume matched each time by the Druids. Away from the brutal scene, in the darkness, a slight female figure, wrapped in a black cloak with a silver fringe, led a horse pulling a litter on which another, larger cloaked figure was lashed. She stumbled and almost fell, only the support of the horse’s bridle keeping her upright. Her cloak was dirty
and tattered, her step weary, yet there was no doubt of her determination as she regained her step and pressed forward into the megalithic arrangement, passing the outer ring of stones.
The fiery light of the wicker man fell on the man on the litter. His robe was also worn and bloodstained though he wore armor beneath the cloth. The metal was battered and pierced. His lifeless eyes were staring straight up at the stars.
The complex they passed through had been built instages. In the center where they were headed were five pairs of stones arranged in a horseshoe. Each pair consisted of two large upright stones with a lintel stone laid horizontal on top. A slab of micaceous sandstone was placed at the midpoint of the entire complex, to serve as a focal point for worship and an altar for the various local religions that flourished briefly, then were swept under by the weight of the years. Later builders had constructed a second smaller ring around this, using spotted dolomites. And even later, a third encircling ring thirty meters in diameter was built consisting of sandstone blocks called sarsen stones.
The woman led the horse and litter up to the oldest set of stones, an upright pair covered by a lintel stone. She threw back her hood revealing lined skin and gray hair shot through with remaining black. She untied the litter from the horse.
“We waited too long, my love, and we became too noticeable,” she whispered to her partner in a language no one else on the face of the planet would have understood. It had not yet really sunk in to her that he could not hear her and never would hear her again.
She noted the orientation of his dead gaze and she too peered upward for a moment searching among the stars. She pointed. “There, my dear Gwalcmai.” He had been known as Gawain at Arthur’s court and had fought at the Battle of Camlann, where the leaders mortally wounded each other. It was there he had received the wounds that had drained the life from his body.
However, it was not the wounds to his body, or even his death, that frightened her. It was the damage to an artifact he wore on a chain around his neck, underneath the armor. It was shaped in the form of two hands and arms with no body spread upward in worship.
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