The Dragon King

by Nils Johnson-Shelton

  But in the middle of the room were four guards, each toting submachine guns and wearing head-to-toe Call of Duty body armor. Troublingly, they stood watch over what the knights knew to be a crossover gate that must have sprung open when Artie first drifted through the King’s Gate. Worse still, they were wearing gas masks, so Shallot’s scentlock would have no effect on them.

  Qwon pulled the door shut. “We got a problem,” she whispered, and explained the situation.

  “We could rush them and take them by surprise,” Shallot said.

  Lance shook his head. “Not with trained soldiers like that. Even if we succeeded, at least one of us would probably get shot. We can’t take that risk.”

  “How about one of those fireballers?” Dred asked.

  Qwon shrugged. “But what if it destroys the sword? That would really suck.”

  “I have a flashbang arrow. That would stun them, but I’m not sure how much time it would buy us.”

  Shallot put a hand on Qwon’s forearm. “Wait—maybe we should use the crossover.”

  Lance raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”

  “It’s a stretch, but what if I sneaked through to the Otherworld and brought something back with me?” Shallot asked. “Something that would cause a commotion and enable the rest of you to come in and either knock them out or just take the sword?”

  “Okay,” Lance whispered. “So you go in there and come back with what—a bunch of fairies?”

  “That would be ideal, but it could be anything. A flock of birds, a bear, anything to get their attention and hold it long enough for you guys to surprise them.”

  “How’ll you get past them without them seeing your hair, though?” Qwon asked.

  “I’ll make a hood.”

  Lance slapped his forehead. “Duh.” He pulled a handkerchief from one of his cargo pockets and Shallot wrapped her hair into a bun. Qwon helped tuck it under the kerchief, making sure no strands leaked out.

  “Ready,” Qwon said.

  Shallot blinked her huge eyes, smiled with her jagged teeth, and went invisible. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Anything past that, you can assume something happened. You’ll have to come up with another plan in that case.”

  “Understood,” Lance said.

  Then they watched as a small pebble floated into the air in Shallot’s invisible grip. She pushed the door ajar and the pebble sailed into the room, clinking against one of the sword cases. All of the guards looked in the direction of the noise. In a flash the door opened enough for her to pass through it and then closed just as quickly.

  There was no commotion. She had made it. Now, all they could do was wait.

  20

  AND HOW TEAM GRAIL ENJOYED THEIR JAUNT THROUGH THE KING’S GATE

  At that same moment, Artie stood in the Royal Chamber looking up at the King’s Gate, turning the dark, crown-shaped key in his fingers.

  Behind him, the knights of Team Grail were tethered together, mountaineer-style, with a single rope. Artie was first, then Kay, Bedevere, Thumb, Bercilak, and, finally, Numinae. “Who knows what we’ll find in there,” Artie had warned as he looped the climbing rope around each of them. “If it’s like last time, we’ll just drift along until we get to the end. We might not be able to hear each other, either. . . .”

  When they were ready, Artie slipped the key into his shirt. He pointed Excalibur at the portal, and a howling breeze swirled around the room. A strand of Excalibur’s darkness shot from the blade and connected with the abyssal spot. This was black and empty, but then it flashed white, blinding Artie and his knights. They were lifted from the ground, the rope straightening as the knots tightened into unworkable clumps, and were pulled magically into the King’s Gate.

  For an indeterminate amount of time nothing happened. They could see their own bodies and a foot of rope in either direction, but past that it faded into nothing. Artie asked Excalibur for light, but even that couldn’t pierce the dark. As before, there was no sound—all they could hear was the thumping of their own hearts. Bercilak, who didn’t even have a heart (or eyes, or a mouth), heard nothing at all.

  Since there was nothing to see, Artie closed his eyes. He willed himself to be calm. With all that had happened, this wasn’t so hard anymore. The boy he had been only six months before—a skinny kid who couldn’t even stand up for himself, who’d been scared of something as insignificant and cowardly as a bully, who preferred the basement game room to the outdoors, who never really tried in school, who relied on his headstrong sister to stick up for him, who loved his dad without fail—that boy was gone. Parts of him remained, of course—he still loved his dad, and he still admired Kay—but they were like stones in a foundation, not the building itself. He had grown. He wasn’t a man, not yet, but he knew without question that there weren’t many kids his age who could do what he could do. There weren’t many kids who were fated to find the Holy Grail, or hang out with fairies, or call dragons, or battle an all-powerful wizard.

  His mind turned to Merlin. No more games, Artie thought, remembering what Merlin had etched on the little tag that hung around the sabertooth/rhino’s neck. And then Artie realized that Merlin was being literal. What it should have said was, No more video games. It had been a warning, since somehow Merlin was kidnapping children using Otherworld. How many had he taken? What would they be used for? Only time would tell.

  Artie steeled himself against a budding nausea. He swallowed, trying to convince himself that this wasn’t all his fault. If Merlin has hurt even one of those kids, I will kill him, Artie vowed.

  Just as he was making this grim promise, Artie bumped into something. The other knights came into view as they too slammed into what turned out to be a long wall, as black as the void surrounding it.

  They still couldn’t hear one another, but they could see. Each was fine. “Find the door,” Artie mouthed.

  The knights moved their hands up and down the black wall, looking like mimes in outer space. After several minutes they still had no leads. As they searched, Artie had a small thought: What if they didn’t find it? It then occurred to him that he had absolutely no idea how to get out of the King’s Gate—the last time, he was there one minute, and the next he was falling through the air over the Lake. His heart began to race. Was this some kind of elaborate trap? Did Merlin have anything to do with this? Was the Grail a whatchamacallit—a red herring—meant to lead Artie astray?

  With a questioning look, he tugged the rope that led to Kay. She shook her head. “Keep searching,” Artie mouthed again. It didn’t feel like they’d been looking for long, but nevertheless Artie started to lose hope.

  After a while longer, a noise grew in Artie’s ears. At first he thought it was his heart getting more anxious, but then he realized that it was too fast. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing. The others seemed not to hear it. He tried to ignore it and continued searching. But then the sound became deafening. It was not the pounding of a heart but of hooves.

  He wheeled in place. Rushing toward him was the ghost of King Arthur, galloping on his warhorse, and carrying a long lance at his side. Steam billowed from the horse’s flaring nostrils; saliva streamed from its mouth and dripped from the tackle. Arthur’s visor was up. His face was twisted and mean. He glanced at the people and creatures Artie had brought with him with a look of stern disapproval. The message was clear: They should not be here. The King’s Gate is for the king.

  “Too bad!” Artie said defiantly. “I’m the king, too, you know!”

  Arthur snapped his head and dropped his visor into place, ready to joust. The faceplate was gleaming and terrifying and shaped like the pointed beak of a carrion eater. In a second the lance’s point hit Artie in the side, looping through the lifeline that tethered Artie to his friends. Artie reacted quickly, swiping Excalibur at the rope and cutting it, and the horse galloped away. As it left, sound returned to the knights.

  “Who are you talking to, lad?” Thumb inquired.

  “And why did you
just cut the rope?” Kay asked.

  “You guys didn’t just see the ghost of King Arthur rush by on a huge warhorse?”

  “I think we’d notice that, sire!” Bercilak said.

  “Well, I saw him. He disappeared into the darkness. I hope he comes back. He can show us where the door is. He did before.”

  “Um, Artie . . . seeing ghosts that other people can’t see—that might be a little, you know, cra—”

  Artie held up a finger and shushed Kay. “He’s coming back.”

  The horse then reappeared and came to a screeching halt in front of Artie. “There—can you guys see that?”

  “Uh, no.” Kay said. “Any of you see what Art’s talking about?”

  The others shook their heads.

  “Whatever. Let me talk to him.”

  “Ah! This will be entertaining,” Bercilak said.

  Artie turned to the old king. Arthur had raised the faceplate of his helmet. He still looked peeved.

  Artie stepped forward. “I’m sorry if I broke some kind of code, but I had to bring them. They’re my knights—no—they’re my friends. You remember what friends are, right?”

  The expression on Arthur’s face softened. “Yes,” came the response, though Artie knew that he was the only one who would ever hear it. “I remember that some of my friends turned out to be my worst enemies. And some of my enemies, my best allies.”

  “Yeah. I’m learning that too.”

  “Are you sure, young king?”

  “I think so.”

  Arthur nodded toward the wall, and there, where it hadn’t been before, was the outline of the door, the crown-shaped keyhole clearly visible. “Take your friends and go through, Artie Kingfisher.”

  “Thanks, Arthur Pendragon.”

  “Get the cup. Use it wisely. And don’t end up like . . . like part of me did.”

  “I’ll try not to. No offense, but I really don’t want to end up guarding a door in some weird bottomless void for a thousand years.”

  “Nor did I, but fate can be funny. Now listen carefully.”

  “What?”

  “The answer is me,” Arthur said cryptically. “Godspeed.” And then, in a blink, he and his horse were gone.

  Artie committed it to memory, even though he was totally unsure of what it meant. He turned to his friends, who stared at him in confusion.

  “What did he say to you, lad?” Thumb asked.

  “He said get the cup. Which is exactly what we’re about to do.” He went straight to the door and fit the black key into the crown-shaped hole. He tried turning left and right with no luck. “Oh, come on.” Artie sighed. He pushed it in another quarter inch. A small click came from within, and he was about to try turning it again when the key was sucked from his hand. “What the—?”

  “Look, lads!” Thumb said. The entire door moved silently inward a few inches and stopped. Then it began to glow, getting so bright that they had to shield their eyes. With the light came a frigid gust of air that stung their nostrils and throats. After a few seconds the light subsided. Before them was an open doorway. On the other side was a stone cave.

  Artie pulled out Excalibur and asked for light. Numinae converted his right hand into a maul and charged his left with a green and twinkling spell. Artie put a foot across the threshold. “Here we go.” They stepped into the opening single file, Bercilak bringing up the rear.

  As soon as they were all safely in, the cave shook so violently that they had to brace themselves against the walls. When it stopped they found that the door had shut and sealed the exit off completely. As if to emphasize that they were stuck there, the key pushed out of the smooth rock and clunked onto the ground, leaving no trace of a keyhole.

  Bercilak picked up the key and touched the stone with his metal fingertips. “Sire . . . how exactly are we to escape this place?”

  “Let’s find the Grail first,” Artie said, holding Excalibur to light the way. “We can cross that bridge when we get to it.” He spun and walked briskly away.

  “What bridge is he talking about?” Bercilak whispered, but no one felt like explaining the expression to him.

  The cavern sloped up at an easy incline. It was only a few feet wide, but well over fifteen feet high, and the upper reaches were shrouded in shadow. Little drips and squeaks came from here and there. Bercilak’s armor made an unholy racket, and Bedevere said, “I hope we don’t have to do any sneaking on this mission. It’s like you’re toting a dozen pots and pans, Bercy.”

  Artie turned one corner, then another and another. As he made his way through the cave he got more and more excited and began to pick up speed. He moved so quickly that he put several paces between himself and the others. Finally he turned one last corner and stopped short, and after a few seconds the rest of the knights barreled into him.

  Artie crept into an enormous, cathedral-like cavern. About thirty feet away was the edge of a vast underground lake, the water inky and as still as death. A few torches flickered along the walls.

  Bedevere pointed over Artie’s shoulder. “Look there!”

  Sitting at the water’s edge was a large man in tattered rags. They hadn’t noticed him because he was incredibly still and also because his skin was so ashen and drab that he blended in with the water and rock. His broad shoulders were curled up and his neck bent over, as if he was holding something precious in his hands. His hair was white and scraggly. At closer inspection they could see that his arms were crisscrossed with scars and lesions. He sat with his legs out in front of him, the heels of his feet nearly touching the water. A stream of purple blood led from his leg into the lake. His rib cage rose and fell slowly with deep breaths.

  “Sir?” Artie asked carefully.

  No answer came.

  “Sir, can you hear me?”

  Still nothing.

  “Maybe he’s a deaf-mute,” Kay whispered, her voice echoing.

  Artie was within a few feet of the man now. He could see that the man’s profile was statuesque—a large, crooked nose jutted from under an overhanging brow. He held something in his hands admiringly. His inner thigh had an oozing gash that went from his knee all the way up to his groin, which was covered with a rank and filthy loincloth. “Sir?” Artie said more loudly this time, his own voice bouncing around the cave for many seconds.

  The man turned to Artie. His eyes were as white as snow, just like Bran’s. His lips were thin and chapped and he didn’t appear to have any teeth. He looked like a ghoul.

  Artie’s heart raced. “My name is Arthur Kingfisher, sir,” he offered, trying to get a better look at whatever was in this man’s hands.

  “Kingfisher?” the man demanded.

  “That’s right.”

  “I am the Fisher King, Kingfisher!” He bellowed, and the wound on his leg gushed blood, swirling in the water.

  Artie choked back his disgust and said, “I’m a king too, my friend. I have something that can help you.”

  “King?” He sniffed the air like a dog. “Ha-ha. He says, ‘King.’”

  “I can heal your wound.”

  The man spun and regarded whatever was hidden in his massive hands.

  “What’re you holding, Fisher King?”

  “It is something. Something I take care of. Something that was supposed to take care of me, but that has only ever just sustained me. . . .”

  “May I—” Artie’s voice cracked high then low, reminding him, at a most annoying time, that he was still kind of a child. He coughed, feeling stupid, and repeated, “May I see it?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact—you can have it.” The injured caretaker raised his gigantic hands and opened them. Artie reached out. The Fisher King held a simple metal cup. It was not shiny or adorned in any way. It lacked either a handle or a pedestal. It didn’t look like the magical, legendary chalice Artie had imagined.

  “Is it the—”

  “It is. I have been trying to rid myself of it for an age. Here.”

  Artie took it gingerly
and pulled the Holy Grail to his chest. There was no moment of revelation with it like there had been when Artie first got Excalibur. The grail was just a plain little cup.

  He stepped away from the Fisher King and noticed that the wound on his leg began to spray blood. The man placed his hands behind him and leaned back, and he sighed with relief.

  Kay stepped forward. “Nice work, Artie. That was a cinch!”

  Artie didn’t answer. Something felt off. He looked from the Grail to the Fisher King and back. Just then, the old guardian began to laugh.

  “Uh-oh,” Numinae said.

  “What is it?” Kay asked.

  The Fisher King answered, twisting his neck at a gruesome angle. “The quest is changed, good sir knight.”

  “What does that mean?” Artie demanded frantically.

  “Ah! Such freedom! Freedom for the body to die, for the spirit to soar!” the Fisher King said. “Give that cursed vessel to the Pure Knight as soon as you can, young king. Only he can keep it properly.” And then the man’s arms broke, as if his bones were made of dry twigs. He flopped back, his head whiplashing against the ground.

  A smile crossed his face.

  “Mordred? You mean Mordred?” Artie asked desperately.

  “In my day he was called Galahad,” the man whispered. His face aged, his stomach sank—and then his leg stopped bleeding. “I am done. Blessed death, I am finally done.”

  Thumb bolted toward the expiring man. “How has the quest changed?” he asked pointedly.

  “Getting the Grail—easy. Leaving with it—not so easy. Godspeed.” And then the ancient man’s skin went from white to gray to charcoal in a flash. His cheeks hollowed, his eyes disappeared, and his hair fell from his head.

  The Fisher King was dead.

  His body was dragged hastily into the water by unseen hands, and when it disappeared the lake began to bubble and boil, and all the torches puffed out.