Pain twisted the king’s heart. God’s blood, he actually had to stop himself from asking if his son was all right.
Stop seeing him as your son, or he’ll destroy everything you hold dear. Your kingdom. Your knights. Gwen.
Why didn’t I realize what he is before we came to this? Am I that bloody blind? He tried to ignore the thought, knowing he couldn’t afford the distraction.
Sure enough, the moment’s distraction cost him as Mordred leaped into an attack. Arthur brought up his sword, only to miss the parry. The prince’s blade clanged against his helm so hard, he saw stars and tasted blood. Reeling back a pace, Arthur caught himself before Mordred could take advantage of his disorientation with another attack. Steadying, he began circling his foe. I’ve got to see this bastard as nothing more than armor, shield, and sword.
Saints knew Mordred had no problem seeing him in that light; frigid green eyes watched him with a wolf’s bloodthirst.
The two men settled into the familiar dance of combat. Attack followed block followed attack, swords licking in search of vulnerable flesh. Just as Lance had predicted, the prince’s youth, strength, and longer reach soon began to tell as fatigue weighted Arthur’s blade and dragged at his feet.
To make matters worse, Mordred knew Arthur’s weaknesses as only a family member could, like that old hip injury that plagued him whenever it rained. The prince went after it at every opportunity with hammering attacks, harrying him until Arthur had to work not to favor that leg. Damned if I’ll give the little shit the satisfaction.
It was hardly the first time the king had fought a man so much bigger. Or even so much faster, though it was rare to meet one who was both. It certainly didn’t happen as often now as when they’d called Arthur the Princeling King. He’d won those early fights through strategy and cunning; he’d win this one the same way.
Ignoring his complaining hip and tiring muscles, Arthur focused on his foe. Mordred’s mouth had gone tight and thin with either pain or building fatigue, until he abruptly broke away and retreated. Arthur, old wolf that he was, went after him, almost stepping on his toes with a long pace inside the prince’s guard.
“You’re old and slow and weak,” Mordred spat, leaping back. “It’s time to let a younger . . .” He attacked in midword, his shield ramming Arthur’s into his chest. The prince’s sword arched low around the locked shields to spear the king’s aching hip.
Pain lanced up Arthur’s spine in a scarlet thunderclap. He ignored it to muscle against Mordred’s shield, forcing it down one finger width, then two . . .
The king struck, ramming his sword point into the protective leather gorget around his foe’s throat. The blow sent the prince sprawling flat on his back, gagging in agony as his blade flew from his hand.
Arthur’s foot landed squarely in the center of Mordred’s chest, bearing down hard as the younger man struggled to breathe. Coolly, the king angled his sword against the bare skin on the underside of the prince’s jaw. All he had to do was lean his weight against the blade to cut Mordred’s throat. Instinctively, Arthur looked up, his gaze seeking his queen’s face. Under the awning, Gwen and Morgana wore matching wide-eyed expressions of maternal horror.
Dammit, he threatened you!
He jerked his gaze downward as the prince dragged his helm off and fell back with his arms flung wide. Making a point of being no threat.
Calculation filled Mordred’s green eyes as he tried to speak, only to break off in wracking coughs. Arthur’s sword strike apparently hadn’t crushed his larynx; he’d be dying now if it had. But the blow was definitely causing him considerable pain.
If I don’t kill him now, he’ll drown my kingdom in blood.
“Do it, Arthur,” Gwen’s voice rang across the field, over the silent crowd.
“Yes,” Morgana said, though she had to know she had no say in this. “You must.”
Mordred croaked a rasping sound of shock, presumably at his mother’s endorsement of his execution.
Arthur set his weight and lifted the sword over his head. Green eyes widened in fear and disbelief.
Damn it, there came another memory: Mordred’s smile as a boy, lighting his face with mischief, bright as sunrise. He hadn’t smiled often, but when he did . . . Tears stung Arthur’s eyes, but he braced to bring the blade down and end his child . . .
And realized he couldn’t do it.
You fucking fool, he raged at himself, he’ll destroy everything you love! Gwen, the kingdom . . . My enemies will gather around him and drag us all into war!
But though he could have slain Mordred in combat, the king simply didn’t have it in him to slit the boy’s throat. Blade still raised over his son’s head, Arthur snarled, “Did I raise you to keep your word like heart’s blood?”
Mordred’s gaze didn’t even flicker. “Yes . . . my . . . liege . . .” he croaked.
Lying little fuck. Fortunately there were ways to keep a man from finding followers. It might not be enough to satisfy Merlin, but it would have to do. Arthur used his best battleground roar. “Do you swear by your honor that you will make no attempt to incite rebellion against your king?”
“I . . . swear,” Mordred croaked. Lying again.
“Do you swear that you will lead no men against mine, nor kill either me or my subjects, nor commit any other form of treason?”
Mordred swallowed as if trying to force his protesting larynx to cooperate. “I . . . so swear . . . on . . . on my honor.”
Looking up, Arthur swept a cold glance over the crowd, searching out his most rebellious lords one by one. “Mordred has sworn on his honor to attempt no treason against me, my subjects, or my kingdom. If he violates that oath . . .”
Mordred jerked in protest under the booted foot still planted on his chest. Without looking down, Arthur pressed the point of his sword against his throat, spilling a bright, narrow stream of blood. The prince froze. “. . . If he violates that oath, any man who follows him is a fool. If he would break an oath to his own king—to his own father—why would anyone imagine his word is worth anything?”
Arthur lifted his foot and stepped back. “You are no longer my heir,” he told Mordred, making sure his voice carried to everyone present. “You are no longer my son. And you are banished. Leave Camelot now. You have three days to get out of the country. If you ride hard, you can just do it. If you are caught in Britain on day four, you will hang. Now get out of my sight.”
Pale as milk, Mordred struggled to his feet. He turned toward his pack of followers. As one, they looked away. He curled a lip bitterly, pivoted, and limped from the courtyard.
Arthur flicked a gaze at Percival, Cador, and Marrok. The three Knights of the Round Table could be trusted to make sure he left without yielding to the temptation to kill him. They were also a lethal combination on the battlefield.
The trio approached and braced to attention. “Watch him pack and escort him to the Channel. I want to make sure he actually leaves. And don’t let him get himself killed between here and there.”
“Aye, my king,” Percival said, and turned to his partners. “Let’s go.” They trooped off.
Now I’ve got Merlin to deal with. The wizard would, of course, deny Arthur the Grail, which meant he now had to wonder which of his enemies would drink from it.
The king started toward the pavilion, forcing himself not to limp despite the pain lancing through his injured hip with every step.
Guinevere, bless her, had called for water. She stepped from beneath the awning and knelt to present the goblet to Arthur with regal elegance. He shot a glance toward the stands, but their watching audience had already dropped to their knees with a mass rustle and murmur. They all looked a bit stunned. Evidently very few of them had expected him to win.
I don’t suppose I can blame them, considering I didn’t expect to win, either. Lancelot, after all, had been right; the odds hadn’t favored Arthur.
Thanking his wife, the king accepted the goblet and drank a gulping swallow f
or the sake of his dust-dry throat. After helping his queen to her feet, he led her back to the pavilion, seated her, and sank into his own chair. Crossing one knee over the other, Arthur lifted an insolent brow at Merlin. “Well?” He took another swallow.
“Well played, King Arthur. But then, I expected nothing less.”
He damned near strangled on the water. “Didn’t you?”
Merlin’s voice dropped. “You could have killed him. Indeed, most men would have. Instead, you found a way to make it difficult for your enemies to use him.”
Arthur’s hand tightened on his goblet. “But not impossible.”
“No. Not impossible.” He gestured, and the Grail appeared in the wizard’s hand, glowing even in the bright light of afternoon. “But very little is impossible.”
“I thought our battle was to be to the death.”
Merlin shrugged. “You could have killed him. You simply chose not to.” He looked into Arthur’s eyes, and the impact of his gaze was like a blow from a strong man’s fist. “I was not attempting to discover if you are a powerful man, Arthur. You wouldn’t be High King if you weren’t. What I sought to determine was if you could be trusted to use power wisely, yet with mercy. Even mercy for one who betrayed you.”
“You know so bloody much,” Arthur growled. “Do you know if my kingdom will pay the price for my clemency?”
“If I could divine the future at will, would I have needed to test you?”
The king’s lips twitched with reluctant humor. “I suppose not.”
“However, there are things you need to know before you decide whether to drink from my cup,” Merlin continued, raising the Grail as if in a toast. The cup vanished in a rain of sparks. “I suggest we adjourn to discuss this in more privacy.”
Arthur nodded. “I have no objection.” He rose, took his queen’s hand, and limped off the field, aware of the crowd streaming after them.
• • •
The Table Chamber was the true heart of the fortress of Camelot. The massive oak Round Table dominated the impressive space that soared to a vaulted ceiling two stories overhead. Weapons glinted on the torchlit stone walls: swords, axes, lances, and shields captured from Arthur’s foes. Between the clusters of arms, crimson banners hung from the vaulted ceiling two stories overhead, each glinting with the rampant dragon that symbolized the reign of the Pendragon line.
Twenty-four chairs surrounded the table, presently occupied by Arthur and his knights, Merlin, Nimue, Gwen, Morgana, and a number of others chosen by the two conjurers. Since the total was greater than the number the Table could accommodate, the rest sat at long tables around the walls. Gwen ordered food and wine for her guests, then dismissed the servants once it arrived.
Nimue studied Arthur with a frown. “It might help if I heal that injury before we begin this discussion.”
“You’re hurt?” Guinevere’s gaze swept the length of his body in alarm.
“Mordred caught me in that old hip wound,” Arthur explained, then turned to Nimue. “I would be grateful.”
“I will need to touch you.” When he nodded, she rose and knelt before him to rest fragile fingers on his dirty knee. Heat rolled up his thigh, followed an instant later by a blessed cool that surprised him into inhaling. An odd sensation followed, like something moving beneath his skin. He was still trying to figure out what the hell it was when Nimue took her hand away.
“The wound will trouble you no more.”
Arthur flexed his leg, surprised when agony didn’t shoot through his hip. “There’s no pain at all.” He laughed, surprised and gratified. “I’ve grown so used to the constant ache, it actually feels a bit strange.”
As those at the Table murmured in astonishment—even Morgana looked impressed by the speed of the healing—Nimue frowned. “From the scarring, it must have given you a great deal of pain for a long time.”
Still rubbing his hip in amazement, Arthur nodded absently. “Yes, I took an arrow during a siege of an enemy fortress fifteen years ago.”
“He almost lost that leg.” Gwen’s wondering eyes appeared very wide and blue as she gazed at Nimue. A grin spread across her face, brilliant as dawn, and she caught the witch’s hand. “Thank you! Thank you so much. I had feared it would always torment him. . . .”
“You’re welcome, of course.” Nimue smiled at the queen. “I’m glad I could help.”
Arthur rubbed his thigh hard and grinned when the pain showed no sign of returning. “So,” he said, reaching to carve a slice of suckling pig for Gwen, then putting it on the trencher they shared. “Tell me about this choice of yours, Merlin.”
“To understand that, my king, you must first learn of the future I foresee for humanity if you decline my cup.”
Arthur looked up from pouring Gwen a goblet of wine. “I thought you said you couldn’t foresee the future.”
“It’s difficult for me to see any individual’s future, but the fate of an entire people is a different matter,” Merlin said. He paused as if to consider the best way to explain. “It’s similar to the way it’s easier to see something large than something very tiny.”
Considering the point, the king nodded. “That does make sense.”
“So.” Leaning back in his seat on Arthur’s left, the wizard took a sip of his wine as he flicked his free hand at the metal brazier in the center of the table.
Flames roared up, casting light across the watching faces in shades of blue and gold and crimson, yet radiating no heat. Those watching murmured or gasped at the brilliant display. “Now,” said the boy wizard in his oddly resonant voice, “share my vision.”
Towers appeared in the leaping flames, standing so breathtakingly tall, the people that bustled around them looked like ants. Hulking metal carts on fat black wheels rolled between the great structures, following streets paved not in stone, but a smooth black substance painted with lines of yellow and white.
One cart, yellow as a marigold, rolled up beside a tower. Arthur saw the same dazzled absorption on the faces of those around him that he felt himself.
“If that’s a cart,” Gwen murmured, puzzled, watching two people get out of it, “where’s the horse?”
She was right. There wasn’t a single horse anywhere in sight, despite the stream of carts flowing between the buildings, accompanied by arrhythmic trumpet blasts.
But as Arthur started to ask about that mystery, a rumble sounded, intensifying until he felt the reverberations in his bones.
All those surrounding the towers stopped to stare skyward in alarm.
And died.
Fire blossomed, blinding enough to make the noonday sun appear no more than a candle’s flame. When the light died, the city was gone, save for blackened ruins clustered around an immense glass pit. There was no sign of anyone at all.
“What happened to them?” someone asked.
“They died,” Merlin said grimly. “All of them. Instantly.”
The image shifted, fleeing across the Earth like a bird on the wing. Miles away, the first carts appeared, melted into slag or blazing like torches. More miles passed before people appeared, staggering, so horribly burned, Gwen at first didn’t realize they were people at all.
“Mankind will be extinct within three years.” Merlin’s voice sounded low and tight. “Dead of burns, starvation, exposure, or poison in the air and water.”
“Surely this is the wrath of God?” Arthur turned a troubled gaze on the wizard. “His judgment for the sins of these people?”
Merlin snorted. “God did not do this, Arthur. Men did.”
The king gaped at him. “Are they all magicians in this future of yours? How did they do this?”
“Not magic. Weapons.” The wizard shook his head in sorrow. “Weapons you can’t imagine. Your language doesn’t have the words, even if I tried to explain.” He turned a brooding gaze on the horrific scene. “And this is only one possible future. There are an endless number of ways and times and reasons humanity may wipe the earth bare of all
life. You and your knights and ladies could serve as the balance. You could save your world.”
“But if it’s the will of God . . .” Arthur’s spread his hands. He had never felt so helpless. “How is drinking from a cup supposed to give me the ability to change this?”
“If it’s the will of God, it will happen no matter what you do. But what if it’s only the will of sinful men?” The wizard leaned in until they were almost nose to nose. “What if you can save all those who would otherwise suffer and die?”
Arthur shook his head. “Merlin, I don’t see how that would even be possible. It must have taken years to build that city. Decades. Perhaps centuries. I am only one mortal man. I’ll be dust long before then.”
“Not if you drink from the Grail. A sip from my cup will change you, allowing you to live centuries without aging a day. You could guide your race beyond those shoals.”
“I don’t see how even immortality could give me the ability to prevent something like that.” He gestured at the brazier and the slagged city it portrayed.
“Immortality is only one of the gifts the cup will bestow.”
“But why don’t you do whatever it is you want done? Obviously, you have great power. Why must it be me?”
“Because this is a task for your kind, and I’m not one of you. What’s more, yours is not the only people in danger. My task is to help those others gain the power to save themselves, just as you must.”
“Again, how? As some kind of immortal tyrant? Always at war, always waiting for betrayal? I have been High King but two decades. I wouldn’t care to bear such a weight for centuries.”
“A tyrant is the last thing your people need.” It seemed the night sky shone reflected in Merlin’s eyes, a spiral of stars through darkness. “You would only guide, not order. In the end, humanity must choose its own way, just as all creatures must. But the choice will be better for your guidance.”
Arthur studied him. “Do you see that, too, then, with this Sight of yours?”
Wicked Games Page 5