The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  It was Hank Morgan.

  Hugo strode down the slope, arms outstretched. “Hank! Well met, old sock! Well met!”

  Hank held out a cautious hand. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. How is it you’re here now?”

  Hugo stopped and lowered his arms, confused. “You may not know us, but we know you, Hank.”

  “You know me?” Hank exclaimed through gritted teeth. “That’s impossible.”

  “No, it isn’t!” said Hugo. “We’re time travelers as well! We actually met you here, some years ago!”

  The bloodied engineer shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said brusquely. “I’ve never traveled in time before. I don’t know how it happened. I was having an argument at my factory in Hartford, and a crusher named Hercules cracked me in the skull with a crowbar. I woke up underneath a great oak tree not too many miles from here.”

  “We know the place,” said Hugo. “How long have you been here?”

  “About six months, give or take,” Hank replied. “Just long enough to see the whole place going straight to hell in a hand-basket.” He dropped the bat and shield and moved up to shake hands with Hugo. “Sorry about the reaction,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I saw a friendly face.”

  “What’s happened here, Hank?” asked John, pointing at the castle. “Who’s attacking them?”

  “Who isn’t is a better question,” Hank replied. “All the tribes and fiefdoms have united against King Arthur.”

  “Against Arthur?” John deadpanned. “Arthur united the tribes and kingdoms. Who would dare raise a hand against him?”

  “From what I’ve learned, the nobles have always resented him,” Hank replied. “There’s a deep-seated belief that he came by his crown though deceptive means, that he never truly earned the right to become the High King thirty years past. And it all came to a head a few months ago when his own adviser, that bastard Merlin, united the nobles and besieged Camelot.

  “Actually, the place would have fallen weeks ago,” Hank continued, “if Arthur’s uncle, Mordred, hadn’t shown up to help defend the castle.”

  The companions were horrified.

  “His uncle?” Jack exclaimed, eyes narrowing. “When did that happen?”

  “It isn’t in the histories,” said John. “None of the ones I’ve read, anyway.”

  “I don’t care if Mordred’s his nursemaid,” said Chaz. “Why is Merlin attacking Arthur? I’nt he s’pposed t’ be the good one?”

  Hugo was overcome with a different emotion: guilt. “This is all my fault,” he began.

  “It’s not over yet,” John said, cutting him off. He turned to Hank. “We have to get to Arthur. Is there any way we can get close to the castle? Any way at all?”

  “There just might be,” Hank answered. “Follow me.”

  About half a mile to the north of the castle, where an assault was impossible because of the thickness of the rocks and trees that bordered the river just beyond, Hank led them to a massive stone.

  On the stone, almost completely faded with age, were markings in ancient Greek.

  “Arthur showed this to me when I first got here,” Hank explained. “A man called Brutus created the passageway centuries ago, modeled after one he’d used to escape the siege of Troy. There are several more scattered around Albion.”

  The companions all shuddered involuntarily on hearing the name. “Britain, if you please,” Jack said, looking around the stone. “Where is the passageway?”

  Hank gave the massive boulder a shove, and they heard a mechanism underneath grind into action. The stone levered over on its side, revealing a long-unused set of stone steps that spiraled down into darkness.

  “I think it leads to a spot right in the center of the castle, and there are oil lamps throughout,” said Hank. “Anyone got a match?”

  Lamps blazing, the companions moved quickly through the narrow underground passage. Hugo led the way, having renewed his courage since seeing a familiar face—even if the engineer didn’t recognize him in turn. Hank followed behind him, then Chaz, with John and Jack in the rear, making sure they were not being followed.

  Suddenly Hugo stopped. There was something partially blocking the narrow passageway. It was a bird, an immense owl, which lay unmoving on the flat stones.

  “Archimedes,” Chaz breathed, pushing past the others. He knelt down and pressed his ear to the bird’s chest. “He’s functioning, but barely. I think there might be something in the Little Whatsit I can use to fix him up.”

  “We don’t have time for a stupid bird,” Hank hissed. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not leaving him behind,” said Chaz, dumping a few other items out of his pack. “I’m taking him with me.”

  “Your business, not mine,” Hank retorted, turning around. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

  “Do you believe,” John whispered to Jack as they watched Chaz gently wrap the damaged owl and put it into his bag, “that this is the same fellow who wanted us to give him Uncas to eat?”

  “Miracles never cease,” said Jack. “Look—the passageway is sloping upward to more steps.”

  The passageway leveled out, then pitched steeply upward, ending at a stone ceiling. “Stand aside,” Hank instructed the others, taking up the bat. He got a solid grip on it, then swung it up into the stones.

  They shivered, and a light rain of dust fell. Hank adjusted his grip and swung again, then again, and with a sharp crack, the stones broke apart and crumbled down onto the steps. Above them, they could see a stone covering that was slightly ajar, so light could come down into the tunnel. And they could hear voices; harsh, almost shouting.

  “You think I don’t know?” one was saying. “Don’t you think I knew all along what I had lost?”

  “I can’t let you do it,” another voice pleaded. “I can’t let you kill him.”

  “You must.”

  “I can’t!”

  “That’s Mordred,” said John urgently. “And Arthur! We have to get up there, now!”

  Pushing together, Hank, John, and Jack hefted the large stone off the entrance and shoved it aside. They climbed out to an astonishing realization: The stone had been covering the crypt of the old king, Camaalis. The tunnel led to the very spot where Caliburn had lain for centuries until Arthur claimed it.

  A short distance away, in the center of the castle walls, Arthur and Mordred were facing each other across the ancient stone table. They had ignored the clamor of the falling stones in the passageway, but ceased arguing when they realized that they had an audience.

  Arthur was bewildered at first—he hadn’t seen the companions long enough to immediately recall them after three decades. But Mordred recognized them instantly.

  “I don’t know why you’re here,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “but you have followed my brother and me across the centuries, always appearing at these pivotal points in our histories. It’s only right that you are here to witness this now.”

  Arthur, older and bearded but still bearing the youth and noble countenance of the boy they remembered, spun back to his uncle. “I can’t allow it, Mordred.”

  Mordred raised his spear—the one he had taken from the chamber of the Grail in Alexandria. “You cannot stop me, boy. Not in this.”

  In answer, Arthur began to raise the black sword, Caliburn, as he stepped forward.

  “Arthur, please!” Mordred cried out as he stepped up onto the table to meet the younger man’s approach. “Please, don’t—”

  The corner of the table, worn and pockmarked with age, gave way under Mordred’s foot, and he fell, twisting, against Arthur, who caught him against his chest.

  There was a terrible cracking sound, and thunder shook the castle walls, raining stones down all around them.

  The sword Caliburn fell to the ground. The blade broke off just above the hilt.

  Mordred looked down at it, disbelieving, and stepped back from his nephew, letting go of the spear.
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  Arthur looked down at the shattered sword, then at his chest, where the spear, the Lance of Longinus, had pierced his heart. He pulled it free, then fell to his knees on the stone table. He whispered something to Mordred, then fell.

  The companions raced over to the table just in time for John to catch the king. He looked up, stricken. “We’ve arrived too late,” he said mutely. “The one, the Arthur …

  “… is dead.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Enchantresses

  The girl walked along the island’s shoreline, idly dragging one foot through the surf. The old fisherman watched her, knowing, as she only suspected, that this was the last day they would spend together.

  “You know,” he said jovially, “you’re going to scare all the fish.”

  “Sorry, Grandfather,” she told him. “I was just thinking.”

  “I could tell. But you’re not afraid?”

  She considered her answer. “No,” she said finally. “Not afraid. But I know that my childhood is nearly over. And it makes me sad. Leaving you makes me sad.”

  He nodded. “I understand. It was the same with your uncle Telemachus. But nothing is forever. We’ll meet again someday.”

  “Will we? Does that mean I’ll live to see tomorrow?”

  “None of us knows that for sure,” he replied, “but I’d say the odds are in your favor.”

  She didn’t answer, but simply stared out across the water, toward the line of storms that never seemed to change, and wondered if she would ever see what lay beyond them. She hoped she would.

  * * *

  Mordred hadn’t moved. He just stood there, confused, looking from the bloodied spear that lay on the ground to Arthur and back again.

  “What did he mean?” Mordred whispered to no one in particular.

  The companions approached cautiously, uncertain of what was happening. John cradled the lifeless form of Arthur in his arms and looked up as Mordred repeated the words. “What did he mean?”

  “What did he say to you, Mordred?” Jack said, stepping closer. Once, years before, in his own timeline, he’d shared a connection with Mordred that had been forged more because of his youth than poor judgment, and nearly lost his shadow—and soul—because of it. But he knew a personal struggle when he saw it.

  Mordred looked at him, his face a mixture of emotions. “He said, ‘You are strong enough to bear this.’ What did he mean by that?”

  John’s mind raced. The crucial moment had passed, and they’d missed their chance to undo whatever had been done. Whichever brother had been their true adversary no longer mattered. Arthur was dead. Now the only hope they had was to prevent the ascent of Mordred to the throne. To keep him from becoming king and turning the world and the Archipelago into the Winterland.

  “Mordred,” John said cautiously, “what were you and Arthur arguing about?”

  The question seemed to snap Mordred out of his trance. “Arguing?” he repeated. “We were arguing about what I am compelled to do. Arthur disagreed. But now,” he added ruefully, as he looked at his nephew’s body and the realization of what had happened hit him fully, “the path is clear. And there will be none who can oppose me.”

  “This is what Arthur meant, Mordred!” Jack exclaimed. “You are strong enough to bear this! We saw what happened. We know you didn’t mean to kill him. Don’t let his death force you into a path—”

  “Force me?” Mordred said with a barking laugh. “As with a Binding? Don’t you think I worked out long ago who had suggested to my brother that I be Bound? Who it was that was responsible for my exile?”

  John and Jack looked grimly at each other. There was nothing they could say.

  “If I had not been summoned to the tournament by Taliesin,” Mordred continued, “I would have remained in exile. And your treachery”—he pointed at Hugo—“is what cost me the throne that was rightfully mine.”

  He stepped over the spear, and all the companions reared back in trepidation. “I have a promise to keep,” Mordred said as he moved around the table, “and order to restore to the land that has been decimated. But when that is done, we shall have a reckoning of our own.”

  With that, Mordred glanced upward at the sky, then turned and ran toward one of the great castle doors, where he disappeared.

  As one, the companions looked up too. High above, the sun had reached its zenith—but instead of shining brightly, it was obscured by shadow and soon would be in full eclipse.

  * * *

  “Why didn’t he kill us?” Hugo asked. “Not that I’m complaining, but I’m certain he really, really wanted to.”

  “I don’t think he can,” John answered. “Not here, in this place. And not after killing Arthur.” He looked up at the vanishing sun. “I think that’s what’s happening now. Mordred’s broken some law of the Old Magic.”

  Outside, in the direction Mordred had gone, the din of battle rose. It meant the escalation of the war. Worse—if that was possible to imagine—it meant that the creation of the Winterland was closer than ever.

  “We have to find a way to stop this!” Jack exclaimed.

  “We will,” John said. “But first we’re going to take care of Arthur’s body. I’m not just leaving it here, uncovered.”

  As John and Jack wrapped the body of Arthur and laid it in state on the stone table, Hank moved around to the doors, barricading them. “There,” he said, breathing hard from the effort. “No one’s going to be coming through. Not for a while, at least,” he added with a fearful glance at the ramparts, which were being sparsely defended by the king’s followers.

  Hugo and Chaz sat in the grass, still numb from the events they’d just witnessed. “You know more about this Arthur fellow than I do,” Chaz said. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly,” said Hugo.

  “Is this the first time or the last time that Arthur was killed?”

  Hugo’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand what you mean by ‘first time’ and ‘last time.’”

  Chaz showed him some pages he’d dog-eared in the Little Whatsit. Hugo scanned the passages Chaz indicated, then frowned. Suddenly he sat upright, and his eyes widened in shock and realization.

  “John! Jack!” Hugo shouted. “Come here!”

  As the Caretakers approached, Hugo gestured to the book. “Here, Chaz!” he said excitedly. “Read them what you’ve found!”

  “I’ve been trying t’ catch up,” Chaz explained. “The rest of you knew so much already about Arthur and Mordred and Merlin, that I’ve been reading up on them. Do you know if this is the first time, or the last time that Arthur was killed?”

  “What’s the difference?” asked Jack, his tone skeptical. “He’s just dead.”

  “Well, it says here that he might not have t’ be,” Chaz replied. “The Little Whatsit says that Arthur ruled on the Silver Throne for a hundred years before he died, but that he’d been killed once before—then restored to life.”

  That got the Caretakers’ attention. “Does it say how he was restored?” John asked, trying not to get his hopes up.

  Chaz nodded and quoted from the book. “It says that he was ‘saved to bring light back into a world of eternal darkness, by blood, by faith, and by the power of the Sangreal.’”

  “The Holy Grail,” Hugo said breathlessly. “Arthur can be brought back by the Grail.”

  “Is it true, John?” Hugo asked. “Does the Grail really exist?”

  “I never saw it for myself,” John answered. “It disappeared from Alexandria while we were there. Merlin was supposed to have tried to steal it, but he claimed Mordred was the real thief. Then we found Mordred in the chamber, sleeping with one of the priestesses who tended the Grail itself, and that’s when Merlin Bound him. And the Grail vanished.”

  Hugo groaned. “So Mordred may have the only thing that can bring back Arthur? How do we convince him to use it?”

  “I don’t know that he does,” said John. “We don’t even know that it’s an ob
ject, really. It’s a translation conundrum that no one, not even the Caretakers, have been able to sort out.

  “One way of reading san greal means ‘Holy Grail,’ or the cup of Christ,” he explained, “but the other way, sang real, means ‘royal blood.’ What we need might be a person. An actual descendant of Jesus Christ himself.”

  “The legend of Joseph of Aramathea,” said Jack. “He was Christ’s uncle, and supposedly took his nephew’s children away from Jerusalem to Glastonbury, in England.”

  Hugo started. “That night in the tent,” he began, excited that he could add a piece of the puzzle, “Merlin and the Lawgiver were arguing about how betraying the Grail meant betraying Holy Blood. And Merlin said something about the children of the Grail.”

  “So is it the cup, or is it the bloodline?” Jack asked rhetorically. “Not that it will help to know, since I haven’t the faintest idea where it can be found.”

  “But I do,” a voice said behind them, “and if you are worthy, you may yet find out the truth for yourselves.”

  The companions turned as Taliesin the Lawgiver stepped up out of the stone passageway.

  “Taliesin,” Hugo said in greeting. “How has this happened?”

  The Lawgiver’s eyes were filled with tears, and he deliberately avoided looking at Arthur’s body. “A journey of a thousand regrets,” he said simply, “begins with a single step. Follow the path of your adversary to the beginning, and perhaps you will find the means to alter his course.”

  “If you are who I think you are, then you had as much right to claim Caliburn as Merlin and Mordred,” said John. “Why didn’t you stop this three decades ago?”

  The Lawgiver briefly raised his hand to his forehead, touching it. “I was Bound, and was kept from doing all I might have had I been released. And now the future is certain unless you find the Grail and restore the true king.”

  “Where?” Jack wondered. “Where can we find it?”

  “At your adversary’s beginning,” said Taliesin, “and my own.”

  “In the Archipelago?” asked John, his heart sinking as he anticipated the possibility of a long, arduous journey ahead. “Do we need to find Odysseus? Was that the beginning you mean?”