“We did,” Jack confirmed.
“I wish you’d stayed around,” Arthur remarked. “You three seemed reasonable men. And there has been a shortage of reasonable men these last thirty years.”
He suddenly noticed his bloodstained tunic and touched his chest, probing. “I … I died, didn’t I?”
“You did,” said John. “It was an accident. Mordred didn’t mean to do it.”
“Then how is it I am standing here now?”
“Because of her,” Hugo said, cradling the still weak girl. “Mordred’s daughter—your cousin, Rose. The heir of the Grail.”
“I can’t believe you have that kind of power,” Jack breathed, as he and Hugo helped her to her feet. “You brought him back, Rose.”
She shook her head. “Not I, and not my power.”
“It was someone’s power,” reasoned Jack. “He was dead, and then he was not.”
“That is the blessing of the Old Magic,” said Taliesin, “and the power of belief.”
“Oh no,” Arthur cried, kneeling. “What happened to my sword?”
“It shattered when Mordred stabbed you,” John said. “When his spear clashed against your sword.”
“That should not have happened,” said Taliesin, looking over the broken halves of Caliburn with Arthur. “Caliburn should have been stronger.”
“I don’t think it was Caliburn that was weak,” said Arthur. “I was. I think I was afraid to use the strength that was needed to end this sooner.”
“Now is your chance, boy,” a harsh voice called out as one of the heavy inner doors splintered apart. The companions whirled about to see Merlin force his way into the castle’s center. “It’s only right that I should find you here, where it began,” he said angrily. “Where you took what was rightfully mine.”
He seemed to notice only then that there were others present and, with no small surprise and a rising anger, realized that he knew them.
“You,” he said accusingly to the companions. “You have followed me for much of my life. If you value your own, you won’t interfere.”
“You didn’t mind when it benefited you,” John pointed out.
“I did mind, when you changed my own history,” Merlin spat, “and disqualified me when I was one breath away from gaining my throne.”
“You would have lost, Merlin,” Taliesin said. “Mordred would have beaten you.”
“I lost, traitor,” Merlin replied, “when I didn’t learn my lesson the first time, to make my Bindings more specific.”
He tightened his grip on the short Roman sword he carried and stepped toward Arthur. The companions circled protectively around the king, and then another player joined the deadly game.
“This has been a long time coming, brother,” Mordred said, stepping out of the crypt passageway. He stopped in shock when he saw Arthur, and even took a step backward when he saw Rose.
Then he seemed to steel himself. He took a firm grip on the scimitar he was carrying and walked purposefully toward Merlin.
“Mordred,” Arthur began.
“Stay back, Arthur,” Mordred commanded, “and this shall be ended in a trice.”
Merlin acted first, leaping with a snarl at Arthur. His blow was parried not by the king, but by Mordred’s scimitar. Mordred pulled back and struck out at Merlin, but found his blow deflected by a short sword, expertly wielded—by Arthur.
“What are you doing?” Mordred asked, incredulous.
“What I must,” said Arthur.
“As am I,” said Merlin, swinging the sword again. Arthur dodged it easily, then pressed around the table to block Mordred.
Merlin jumped atop the table, only to have his feet knocked out from under him by a vicious blow from the scimitar. Mordred pushed Arthur aside with a shove, then leaped up to deliver a killing blow to the disoriented Merlin.
“This is the end, brother,” Mordred said, holding Merlin at the throat with one hand, while drawing back the scimitar with the other.
Merlin screamed.
Mordred struck.
And suddenly he realized that his scimitar was lying on the ground, still clutched in his hand.
He cried out in pain and horror and held the bleeding stump of his forearm to his chest.
“I couldn’t let you do it, Mordred,” said Arthur, the bloody sword in his hand dropping loosely to his side. “I couldn’t let you kill him.”
Mordred staggered, then fell. Kneeling in the dirt, he curled in on himself. After a moment, his shoulders began to shake.
Dear Christ, thought John. Mordred is laughing.
Mordred threw back his head, eyes wild, and in a moment his frenzied laughter turned into an agonized, soul-searing scream. He rose to his feet, still bleeding, and pushed past Arthur and Taliesin to the crypt, where he disappeared into the passageway below.
The companions moved back to the table, where Merlin was sitting and holding his head in his hands.
“Are you all right, Merlin?” John ventured, staying back out of reach of the short sword.
“I was going to kill you myself!” Merlin cried, looking at Arthur with a bewildered expression. “Why, Thorn? Why did you prevent Mordred from killing me?”
“Because,” Arthur replied, “I didn’t believe then, and don’t believe now, that anyone needs to die to become the High King.”
“That,” said Taliesin, “is the reason you were able to draw Caliburn at the tournament.”
“Then how was it that Mordred’s spear shattered Caliburn?” asked Jack. “Arthur is far more noble than Mordred. In my opinion, anyway.”
“It wasn’t a matter of nobility, but a matter of belief,” Taliesin replied. “In the moment that they met, Mordred’s belief in his motivation was greater.”
A tremendous crashing arose from within the walls of the castle, and the clashing of steel could be heard. The war was coming to the heart of Camelot.
“Is it Arthur’s forces, or Merlin’s?” asked John.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Arthur. “My main support had been Mordred’s, and the soldiers were his as well. Everyone else, all the other tribes, had been united under Merlin before he tried to overthrow me.”
Taliesin agreed, with sadness and regret radiating from his face. “Under the Binding, I had trained them all to respond to the will of Merlin, on Arthur’s behalf,” he said, “but none of that will matter now. If you have the means to take him away, Arthur must flee, and rule in exile.”
John and Jack knew what it would mean if Arthur left now. Merlin would try to rule until he was overthrown by Mordred.
And then, despite all they had done, the Winterland would still come to pass.
“There is a way.”
It was Merlin who spoke.
“When you drew Caliburn,” he began, “and won the tournament, you were acknowledged as the High King. As the Arthur, Pendragon. The liaison between the Summer Country and the Archipelago of Dreams. But there was one step you didn’t take … were not allowed to take. One I never allowed those who knew,” he said, looking at Taliesin, “to tell you about.
“There are those more powerful than the armies of man,” Merlin went on in a somber voice, “and as High King, you have the right to command them.”
“Where?” asked Arthur. “Who are they?”
Merlin turned to John. “You know where, and you know how,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Stonehenge,” John said breathlessly. “We can use Stonehenge, the Ring of Power, to summon the dragons of the Archipelago.”
The small group, including Merlin, left the castle through the crypt passageway, pulling the cover stone over it as they went. It would not take long for it to be discovered, but by then they would be miles away.
Taliesin, with some assistance from Jack, secured horses for all the companions and took the lead, heading toward the standing stones John called the Ring of Power. As they left the passageway and waited for the horses, Arthur was anxiously scanning the countryside, looking, hoping, but to no a
vail.
Mordred was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
It took several hours for the companions to reach Stonehenge, and all the while they rode, the skies behind them filled with smoke. Camelot was in flames.
Arthur glanced to his left, at the girl called Rose, who was riding behind Hugo on a black mare. There had been little time for discussion, but he was wise enough to have pieced together who she was, and what she had done to save him. He watched her, saddened, and hoped that their support of each other would extend beyond the present moment. That was, he believed, how it should be. In a family.
He patted the bag at his side, taking comfort in the feel of Caliburn, while also feeling shame. Was it possible to betray, even by weakness, a weapon? Even one as storied as Caliburn?
They dismounted and tied the horses in a nearby grove, then walked over to the ancient standing stones.
“The last legacy of the sons of Albion,” said Taliesin, stroking one of the massive stones. “And the last connection they kept to the world of their birth.”
“Do you know what to do?” Merlin asked Arthur.
“We can show him what he needs to do and say,” Jack said, his voice firm, “and if it’s all the same to you, I think you need to stand back.”
“Of-of course,” said Merlin, bowing his head.
He moved to a shallow field where he could watch without disturbing Arthur. The others remained apart from him, until Rose moved over to him and took his hand. Then Hugo followed, and finally Taliesin.
John and Jack took Arthur to the center of the stones and explained to him what it was they hoped he would do. They explained the means, and the ritual, then left him alone and joined the others.
Arthur stood a long while, arms folded behind his back, head bowed, as if in prayer. Finally, he lifted his head and began to speak.
By right and rule
For need of might
I call on thee
I call on thee
By blood bound
By honor given
I call on thee
I call on thee
For life and light your protection given
From within this Ring by the power of Heaven
I call on thee
I call on thee.
He finished speaking the Summoning and looked around at the mottled sky. Then he turned and called out to the others, “Now what happens?”
“Now,” John said grimly, “we wait. And hold out as long as we can.”
They did not have to wait for long.
A dozen dragons, of various shapes, sizes, and colors, dropped out of the sky and landed on the hillside near the stone circle. The first among them was not the largest, but was by far the most familiar to John and Jack.
“Samaranth!” John exclaimed. He was almost giddy at seeing one of their strongest allies. Both he and Jack rushed forward—and stopped in their tracks.
The large, reddish dragon with the white mane of hair looked at them with a gaze that was clear in its meaning: Come no closer.
John looked at Jack in puzzlement. Then they both realized what was wrong. They were still in the sixth century and would not meet Samaranth, the oldest dragon, for nearly fourteen hundred more years. He would not know them, here, now. And he, as well as the other dragons, would be wondering who had known to summon them using the Ring of Power.
“Ah, what do I do now?” asked Arthur. “Offer to shake hands?”
“Not a good idea,” said Jack. “John?”
John’s mind was racing. He hadn’t really thought it through this far. He’d simply taken a wild chance that the king would be able to summon the dragons. But he needn’t have worried—someone was already in charge and knew how to proceed.
“Why have you summoned us here?” the great, smoky voice of Samaranth rumbled. He swung his head around to Arthur, who, to his credit, stood his ground and faced the dragon fearlessly. “You,” Samaranth said. “You spoke the Summoning. What gives you the authority to do so? Who has given you the words that called us here?”
“I called you of my own authority,” Arthur answered, emboldened by the fact that the dragon hadn’t simply bitten his head off straightaway. “And the words to speak were given to me by your servants, the Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica.”
Arthur made a gesture with his hands, indicating to John and Jack that they should step forward.
“Sons of Adam,” Samaranth asked, “what does this mean?”
“It means that we are also Caretakers of the Archipelago of Dreams, and true and loyal servants of the High King,” said John.
“And you support his rule?”
Jack and John both nodded. “We do.”
“Are there any others who will stand with you, little king?” asked Samaranth.
Screaming a ferocious battle cry, King Pellinor burst through the shrubbery at the edge of the trees, charging straight at the dragons. He was dressed in rags, which were tied around what little remained of his rusted and abused armor, and was running barefoot. Seeing the dragons, the king suddenly skidded to a stop—apparently, when he saw that his legendary “Questing Beast” had finally come to Albion, he had neglected to notice that several others had come as well.
Pellinor stood there, staring mutely at the dragons while his mind reeled. This was not the end to the quest he’d envisioned, nor had his grandfather, or his grandfather’s grandfather. Finally he let out a yell in frustration. “Which of you is it?” he shouted. “Which of you is the Questing Beast, appointed by destiny to be slain by the lineage of Pelles?”
The older dragons at the front almost looked as if they were grinning, John thought, if he really believed a dragon was capable of grinning. Then, in the back, a largish orange dragon with a short, stout body and a long, thick neck raised an arm and waved at Pellinor.
“Aha!” the old king exclaimed as he dropped his visor and drew his sword. “Have at thee, beast!”
Pellinor set off at a full run directly at the dragons, who moved aside to let him through to his target. Pellinor barely came up to the dragon’s knees—which did not deter him from stabbing the dragon directly in the shin. In response, the Orange Dragon reached out with a great clawed foot and stomped down on the blustering Pellinor with a crunch.
When the dragon lifted his foot, Pellinor’s right leg and left arm were twisted at sickeningly odd angles. Still, the old king persisted in stabbing at the dragon with his sword.
“This?” Pellinor bellowed, glancing at his ruined arm. “It’s just a flesh wound! I’ve had worse!”
“Your leg is also broken, you old fool,” the dragon noted.
“Making excuses not to fight me, eh, beast?” challenged Pellinor, and he attempted to chop at the dragon’s foot. “Coward! I’ll have your guts for garters!”
The Orange Dragon sighed and picked Pellinor up by the neck. He walked over to the tree line and deposited the raging king into a stout, hollow oak.
“Think you’ve won, eh?” shouted Pellinor with a now bark-muffled voice. “I can still see you, beast! I can still, uh …” There was a brief pause, as the ratty old king realized that not only was he halfcrippled, but he was also completely immobilized within the trunk.
“I can still curse you!” Pellinor yelled, looking through a knothole. “With my last breath, I shall curse at thee, from the very heart of … ah, well, this tree!”
The Orange Dragon shook his head and walked back to join the others.
“Any others, little king?” asked Samaranth.
“I think he was the last one who would have backed me,” Arthur said, embarrassed, “and he only did that much because my uncle asked him to.”
“Ah yes,” Samaranth mused. “Your uncle Mordred. He was a favorite of mine. A very good student. But he has always let his belief that events and creatures are unchangeable manipulate his choices. And that, above all, is a stupid way to live.”
“And his brother?” asked John. “Was he also your student,
Samaranth?”
“He was mine,” said a smallish, lithe dragon, who stepped to the fore of the drive. “I was his teacher, and he, too, was an excellent student.”
“The Indigo Dragon speaks true,” said Samaranth. “The sons of Odysseus have always had great potential. But it has been warped, and misused, and they lost their way.”
There was a great, choking sob from behind the companions. Merlin, his eyes filled with tears, stepped forward, hands outstretched. The Indigo Dragon took him, pulled him close, and embraced him. “Ah, little boy-king.” The creature sighed. “I had hopes for you. I did. But now it seems another will have to serve in your stead as the Indigo King.”
“Was there no time I chose correctly?” Merlin asked. “No chance I had to redeem myself?”
“Almost,” said the Indigo Dragon. “Had you chosen—truly chosen—to step aside for the boy, it would have been you who was worthy to wear the Indigo Crown and sit on the Silver Throne.”
Merlin looked anguished, then nodded sadly and walked back to the companions.
“Thousands of years ago,” declared the Indigo Dragon, “as the world of men ceased believing in magic and wonder, we, the Guardians of the Archipelago, began to draw a veil over it, to prevent passage except by those who traveled in vessels that bore the mark of divinity.
“But that mark had less to do with power than it did with belief, and intention. This was a lesson we ourselves learned, many thousands of years ago. But we also learned that once fallen, we could also rise again if we so chose. And many of us did.
“There are many who will aid you, both in this world and in the Archipelago. There are objects of both power and influence, born of magics old and new. But above all, you must believe in your cause and have the righteousness of intention to see it through, and you shall always prevail.
“This is your secret, young king. Yours, and those who are the Caretakers of the lands that lie beyond,” the Indigo Dragon continued, indicating the companions with his great claw. “Guard it well and call on us in time of need. We will aid you, as long as you are worthy.”
“You will come, if called by one of royal worth?” said John.
“A misunderstanding,” the dragon said. “The authority does not now and never has lain with those of royal blood. Rather, it lies within those of noble worth. And having one does not necessarily guarantee the other.”
The Indigo King Page 25