The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  “I was a Caretaker of the Grail!” Merlin said, clenching his fists.

  “Only a follower of the true Grail,” Taliesin continued, “will be able to use the sword. Madoc and his own bloodline—”

  “When he betrayed the trust of the Grail, Madoc lost the Mandate of Heaven,” Merlin interrupted. “It doesn’t matter what his bloodline spawned.”

  “To betray the Grail is to betray Holy Blood,” said Taliesin. “How have you done differently?”

  “I’ve betrayed nothing,” said Merlin. “Madoc chose his own path, as did you.”

  “And my sister?” Taliesin said softly. “Did Nimue deserve her fate?”

  “She could have ruled with me. She chose otherwise.”

  “Do you think her blood on your hands will let you touch the sword?”

  “Our blood is different!” Merlin shouted. “We know our lineage, Taliesin. We know we’re descended of gods. The children of the Grail are not.”

  “Not of our gods, no,” Taliesin replied calmly, “but this is a time of new gods, Merlin. I’ve accepted that, and so should you. You know how his divinity was proven—and you know how this tournament will be won.”

  Merlin whirled away from Taliesin and was quiet for a long while. “By willing choice and sacrifice,” he said at length. “That’s Old Magic. It has nothing to do with new gods, Taliesin.”

  “We will see, Merlin.”

  “Yes, we shall.”

  Hugo would have listened longer, but a group of knights were sauntering by, and he worried about being caught and accused of spying. He worried even more that he might have to reveal what he’d heard.

  He was about to leave, but his eyes widened in surprise as he noticed something just below him in Taliesin’s tent. He snaked a hand inside the flap and snatched it. Then, running as quickly as he could, Hugo hurried back to the campsite to wake Hank Morgan.

  “That old snake,” Hank said, pounding a fist into his other hand. “That explains an awful lot.”

  “Can you use your device?” asked Hugo. “The silver dragon watch? Can you use it to send a message, as you did before?”

  Hank shook his head. “I’ve tried. It still isn’t working. That’s never happened before—not for this long.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Hank said with a desperate edge to his voice, “that we are completely on our own.”

  “Perhaps not.” Hugo sat upright with a strange expression on his face. “I might be going balmy, but I think I have an idea worthy of a caretaker.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve been too caught up in instantaneous communication,” Hugo explained, “worrying too much about how soon we can contact someone via your watch device, when we really, literally, have all the time in the world.”

  “You’ve figured out another way to contact help?”

  “Better than that,” Hugo said, beaming. “We already have.” He held up the squarish book he’d taken from Taliesin’s tent. The first page was blank, but the rest of the book was filled with writing—and on the cover, embossed deeply in the leather, was the image of the Grail.

  “Do you have any ink and a quill?” asked Hugo.

  “I have a quill,” Hank replied, “but Merlin makes his own ink. I could probably put something together for you, but it would have to be done in daylight.”

  “No time for that.” Hugo rolled up his sleeve and held out his hand for Hank’s dagger. “John’s going to be pleased that he called this one on the nose.”

  After more bloodlettings than Hugo expected, he finally had enough to work with to inscribe his message in the book. It was approaching morning before he finally began writing in earnest.

  “Not to be critical,” said Hank, “but wouldn’t ‘Help us! Help us! We’re trapped in the sixth century!’ suffice?”

  “Now, now,” Hugo admonished. “This has to be done properly. This is a work for the ages—I can’t just slop it together.”

  “It’s a plea for help, not a sonnet,” Hank argued, holding open the tent flap to look outside. “Just write it out so we can be done before Merlin returns.”

  “I’m a professor of English!” Hugo retorted. “I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of my peers when they come to rescue us, just because I slacked off in my composition efforts.”

  “Technically, you already read what you’re writing,” said Hank. “Can’t you just write it out from memory?”

  “I can’t recall it all,” Hugo said, leaning over the book. “There was a lot going on that evening, and my head was all a-muddle. I even thought it was all a joke of some kind until I actually got here with Pellinor.”

  “You’re lucky you did,” Hank said with no trace of sarcasm. “He’s batty. The story goes that his ancestor, Pelles, was a guardian of the Holy Grail, who lost it when it was stolen by a dragon he called the Questing Beast. They’ve all been on the crazy side ever since.”

  “I’ve never seen a dragon, either,” Hugo said as he began to write, “but after the past few days, I’d be willing to extend him the benefit of the doubt.”

  In short order, Hugo finished writing the warning to his satisfaction, and together he and Hank hid it where Merlin would not stumble across it.

  “That’s that,” Hugo said, dusting his vest off with one hand and flexing the other, which was sore from the dagger pokes. “According to the rules of time travel, now that I’ve actually created the message for us to get later, they should be coming to pick us up any time now.”

  “The ‘rules of time travel’?” Hank said with a smirk. “Do you think they’re just going to be able to do some mumbo-jumbo and suddenly appear?”

  “Am I really being criticized by a man who travels through time with a silver pocket watch?”

  “Sorry,” said Hank. “I’m not trying to be discouraging. I just didn’t want you to think that even for the Caretakers, it would be as easy as just flipping a switch.”

  “Ah, but if I know John and Jack,” Hugo said with more pride than confidence, “it is.”

  The final contests began at sunrise, and everyone who was camped in the valley was there to watch. No one wanted to miss the drama being played out on the hill.

  Merlin came to Hank’s tent to retrieve another pair of gauntlets, a helmet, and a short Roman sword. He strapped it around a Grecian leather skirt that was studded with iron, and he also took a small round shield.

  He never so much as glanced at Hugo, except for a curt glance and tight smile as he left.

  “Do you think he knows I overheard him last night?” Hugo asked Hank.

  “If he had, he wouldn’t have left you alive,” the engineer replied. “Let’s go see this.”

  The Lawgiver stood at his usual place and extended his hand to show that he held eight small stones. Seven black, one white. Whichever among the champions chose the white stone from a bronze bowl would be allowed to choose the first opponent.

  One by one, they turned their heads and drew a stone, Mordred last. He turned back and opened his hand. “Of course,” he murmured, looking at the round white stone. “That’s just as it should be.”

  Merlin suppressed a grin and tipped his chin at Taliesin. The Lawgiver raised both hands. “Mordred shall be first to choose. Against which man will you raise your hand?”

  Mordred looked over his opponents, considering, then extended his arm and pointed at the burly warrior to Merlin’s left. “You. I raise my hand against you.”

  Taliesin withered slightly, as if he’d hoped for a different response. “Gwydion, son of Don, will you raise your hand against Mordred?”

  The king called Gwydion nodded.

  Taliesin dropped his hands. “Then it is begun.”

  * * *

  The first contest was epic, nearly ending in a draw, so evenly matched were its contestants. But then Mordred got a swing under Gwydion’s defenses and slashed his right shoulder to the bone.

  “First blood,” Taliesin called out
as the knights helped Gwydion away, and Mordred pointed at another warrior, this time to Merlin’s right.

  It became obvious to all that Mordred intended for Merlin to be the last, should he defeat the other kings. And with each new contest, that’s what Mordred did.

  One by one, some more easily than others, six opponents fell before Mordred until finally, only Merlin was left.

  “My God,” Hank whispered. “This has really gone the distance. I don’t believe Mordred defeated them all.” He kept glancing around, as if he expected something else to take place. “This is bad.”

  “Why?” said Hugo.

  “Merlin’s good, but not this good,” Hank said worriedly. “He can’t beat Mordred.”

  “We can’t let that happen!” exclaimed Hugo. “We have to stop it!”

  Hank shook his head. “It’s not our fight, Hugo.”

  “Mordred,” the Lawgiver said again, “against which man shall you raise your hand?”

  Mordred pointed at Merlin. “Against him, I shall raise my hand.”

  “Merlin,” Taliesin said, the sorrow in his voice almost palpable, “will you raise your hand against this man?”

  Before he could answer, there was a hissing sound, and a gasp of surprise from the crowd—and from Mordred.

  A dagger, clumsily thrown, was sticking out of Mordred’s side at an odd angle.

  Mordred couldn’t decide whether to be furious that he’d been stabbed or incredulous that anyone had dared. “Who does this?” he growled, pulling the dagger from his ribs. “What treachery is this, Merlin?”

  Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t accuse an innocent … Mordred,” he said harshly.

  “He does not,” declared Taliesin, pointing. “Your own squire has thrown the dagger.”

  The Lawgiver was pointing at Hugo, who, in his state of shock and awe at what he’d done, still had his arm extended from the throw.

  Immediately two of the knights seized him, holding him fast. Hank, pushed to the side, was too stunned to speak.

  “First blood, Mordred,” Taliesin said, still uncertain himself what had happened. “You’ve lost.”

  “No!” Mordred screamed. “Unfair! A cheat!”

  Taliesin shook his head, and a confused smile began to spread over Merlin’s face. “Those are the rules, Mordred. He wears Merlin’s colors. He drew first blood. You have lost. Withdraw, gracefully.”

  Mordred stood, glaring mutely at Taliesin, the anger rising off him like waves of heat. Then he turned slowly toward the knights holding Hugo and extended his arm, pointing a finger directly at the terrified professor.

  The meaning was clear. If it ever was in his power to make it happen, Mordred would kill Hugo Dyson.

  “Hugo!” Hank cried, his head still whirling from the speed of events. “Why did you do that?”

  “I had no choice,” Hugo gasped. “I had to, don’t you understand? I had to stop him! He would have won! Mordred would have become the Arthur! And then who would have been left to stand against him?”

  Before anyone could respond, a great bird swooped over the field, screeching shrilly.

  Merlin’s eyes darkened, and the smile dropped away.

  To the south of the hill, the crowd parted and four men strode forward to the crypt.

  “Lawgiver,” the youngest of them said, “I am Thorn, son of Nimue, and by right of blood and right of honor, I have come to compete.”

  There was an immediate reaction to Thorn’s announcement, and it was harsh. The gathered throng of warriors had allowed one apparent breach of the rules when Mordred came in so near the end of the tournament, but it would not be so easy for this bold boy to breach them again by taking part so late.

  He didn’t have the fearsome countenance of Mordred, or the reputation of Merlin or Gwydion or any of the others. And no one cared who his mother was.

  No one save for the Lawgiver, whose eyes blazed.

  “Silence!” Taliesin commanded, raising his arms high. “I am the Lawgiver, and I will decide what is to be allowed!”

  The angry cries settled down to a disgruntled muttering as Taliesin motioned for Thorn to come forward.

  The other three men stayed at the fringes of the crowd, but Hugo nearly shouted with joy when he recognized two of them as his friends John and Jack.

  Hank motioned for him to be quiet. “You’re in enough trouble as it is,” he said under his breath. “Let’s see if the Lawgiver can sort out your mess.”

  “I wish to speak!” Mordred declared, stepping in front of Thorn. “I have not been given my chance to fight!”

  “I have already said that you lost, Mordred,” Taliesin said. “First blood.”

  Mordred clenched his teeth and looked down at the boy, Thorn, with undisguised loathing. Then his expression changed, and he seemed to be puzzled. The boy returned his gaze bravely and unafraid.

  Mordred looked at Merlin, then turned back to the boy again. “I think I see it clearly now, Lawgiver,” he said, smiling coldly. “It is an old, old story, and one I know all too well.”

  Without another word, Mordred went to his tent and mounted his horse, taking only his spear with him. He left his tent and everything else behind and rode away without looking back.

  “Well,” said Merlin, “I think that ends our tournament.”

  Taliesin raised a hand. “Not quite, Merlin. You, too, are out of the competition. For cheating.”

  “What!” Merlin exclaimed, suddenly enraged. “I never cheated anyone!”

  Taliesin pointed his black staff at Hugo. “He wears your colors. He is your squire. It is you who bears the loss.”

  Merlin shot a poisonous look at Hugo, then another at Hank. “We’ll talk later,” he hissed. “This isn’t over.”

  “Did the tall one with the staff call the other one Merlin?” John whispered.

  “Yes,” said Jack, who was just as surprised. “Meridian is Merlin.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” whispered Chaz, “but Meridian looks like he wants t’ kill that scrawny fellow the knights are holding.”

  Merlin turned back to the Lawgiver. “The tournament itself cannot continue. None among the champions is fit to fight—even if their challenger is just a boy.”

  “I am a man, my Lord,” Thorn said, “and I will fight my own battles, thank you.” He turned to the Lawgiver himself. “May I compete?”

  To Merlin’s increased rage, Taliesin nodded. “I know your lineage, and you have the right. The only opponent left has been disqualified, unless you choose otherwise.”

  Thorn looked at Merlin. “I’m not afraid,” he said. “What must I do?”

  “Will you raise your hand against this man?” said Taliesin.

  Thorn looked confused. “What about the other tests? The trials and contests of physical prowess?”

  Taliesin shook his head. “None of those matter now. Will you raise your hand against this man?” he repeated.

  Thorn considered Merlin, then smiled wryly. “If you’re giving me the choice, then no, I won’t.”

  Merlin looked confused. Taliesin turned to him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “And you? Will you raise your hand against he who will not raise his against you?”

  Merlin’s face was a mix of emotions. He locked eyes with the youth, and they looked at each other in some test of wills that none around them were privy to.

  After an eternal pause, Merlin broke the stare and looked around him at the assemblage. His eyes looked wild, as if he were considering option after option and finding them all leading down dark pathways and ending at stone walls. He shook his head and rubbed his temples.

  “Speak it,” Taliesin demanded. “Speak the words.”

  “I … I cannot,” Merlin finally said, his voice barely a whisper.

  It took a few seconds for Taliesin to understand that Merlin had indeed declined to fight. In relief and with renewed vigor, the Lawgiver gestured to Thorn.

  “Then,” Taliesin said, placing his hands on Thorn’s shoulders,
“only one test remains.”

  He pointed the staff at the black sword, which still lay in the shallow grave. Thorn turned and stepped down into the crypt, picking up the sword as he did.

  “If you can draw the sword from the scabbard …,” Taliesin began. But Thorn didn’t give him time to finish. In one swift motion, he drew the sword from the scabbard and raised it high above his head.

  There was a moment of absolute stillness as a hush overtook the crowd. Then, in a fluid motion, they all fell to one knee and began to cheer.

  In the noise, no one realized that six men had remained standing: Taliesin, Hank, Hugo, John, Jack, and Charles. Merlin had disappeared into the Lawgiver’s tent, and the owl Archimedes was flying in tight circles overhead and singing.

  Taliesin stepped forward and tapped Thorn on each shoulder with the black staff, then kissed him on the forehead. “Well done, young Thorn. You are victorious. From this day henceforth, you are Arthur.”

  PART FIVE

  The Isle of Glass

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Animal Logic

  The parish church was cold, Geoffrey decided. It had always been chill, but for some reason, he’d never thought of it as actually being cold. But that morning he’d realized that it was in fact cold, when he noticed that his own breath was obscuring the writing on the parchment in front of him.

  Sighing in resignation, he laid the quill inside his leather writing pouch and replaced the wax plug in the bottle of ink, then set about finding some tinder to put in the hearth. He carefully made his way down the steps and then opened the stout wooden door. The weather at Caerleon was always a bit ratty. He could understand why St. Cadoc had never wanted to fight any battles. It would have been too cold to lift his sword.

  Still, it was a good enough place to build a church here and name it after him, Geoffrey decided, and if St. Cadoc could bear the weather, then so could he.

  As he bent to pick up some sticks of wood at the tree line, a gust of wind caught his attention, and he looked seaward.

  He had seen some mysterious storms out over the water of late, and more south of the parish. He didn’t know what they meant, but he understood well enough to keep to his work, rather than look too closely.