The Dragon King

by Nils Johnson-Shelton

  “You all right, Art?”

  “I will be when we’re out of here.” He watched his feet. Crossing the Numinae bridge was like moving over a forest path strewn with roots and divots. If they weren’t careful, they could turn an ankle—or worse, fall into the lethal muck below.

  After a few moments Bercilak chimed, “I always enjoyed walking alongside you, Lord Numinae . . . but never did I think that I would walk on you!”

  They were very near the end when Artie said, “Tom, I think you’re smaller.”

  “Me too,” Kay seconded. “It’s like we’re half in the Otherworld and half in our world.”

  “Yes, lass. We are nearing some point between the worlds. I can feel it.”

  Artie eyed the man who was waiting for them and realized, as they drew within fifty feet, that his face had not been obscured. Instead, he had no face—or rather, no eyes or nose. Only a mouth, and for ears only little holes, like on a lizard.

  Once they’d all crossed, Numinae set about bringing himself over. They watched in awe as the end closest to them became thick while the other end became thin. It looked very painful, and when this process was done, two strong branches shot out close to the knights, grabbing the rock on their side. Then Numinae’s body released the ground where the Fisher King had been, and telescoped up and over the zombie mud pit. Finally he was with the others. The leaves and branches withdrew into his body, and the bark of the trunk softened and became mossy, like his skin usually was. His head and neck re-formed, followed by his arms and chest. Last, his legs separated and he planted his feet wide. He cracked his neck and opened his eyes and looked at Artie.

  “Nicely done, Numinae.”

  But before he could answer, the guardian of the mud pit, not more than a dozen feet away, began a slow clap. “Nicely done, indeed.” He waved his hand at the pitiful monsters below. “None of those adventurers thought to bring a creature as freakish as you.”

  Kay stepped forward, “You’re one to talk, face-off!”

  “Am I? I can see, you know. Not like you do, but I can see everything in here. So you brought some kind of alteration mage. Congratulations. That doesn’t mean you’re leaving with the Grail.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Kay said defiantly. She felt for the invisible wall that had stopped Numinae’s spell and found it in seconds. Then she pulled out Cleomede and held its tip against the barrier. “This cuts through anything, chump.”

  “Sir Kay, wait—,” Numinae said, but there was no stopping Kay Kingfisher.

  She pushed. Cleomede’s tip slipped to the side, and she fell awkwardly forward into the wall with all her weight, smashing her cheek against it.

  The guardian laughed. “Nothing can breach this wall, m’lady.”

  “He’s right,” Numinae said. “That spell was the same I’d used on Morgaine’s dragon bubbles. If it can’t break this thing, nothing—”

  The guardian stood. “Did you just say Morgaine?”

  Artie stepped forward. “Yep.”

  The guardian pointed at the knights. “So you did not come here through the secret tunnel—the one in the church in Glastonbury.”

  “Glastonbury, England?” Thumb asked dubiously.

  “Yes—that’s the one,” the guardian said.

  “No, we did not,” Artie said forcefully.

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “The King’s Gate. Heard of that?” Kay blurted.

  The guardian took a couple of steps back. “The King’s Gate . . . I . . . I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it, good sir faceless man!” Bercilak said.

  “But that would mean that one of you—”

  “Is King Arthur. Bingo. Now step aside,” Kay said.

  Artie drew Excalibur for emphasis and said, “I am the king.”

  “But . . . how?”

  “Never mind that. I am the king and I demand that you let us pass.”

  The guardian was silent for a few minutes as he processed all this. Then he crossed his arms and said, “I am sorry, but . . . none shall pass.”

  “Bollocks!” Thumb yelped. “We’re passing. This is the king of both worlds you’re talking to.”

  “None shall pass,” the guardian repeated.

  Artie stepped back and swung for the fences at the wall with Excalibur for good measure. It put off a few sparks but accomplished nothing.

  And that was when the sword told him something: Answer. Artie stepped away from the wall, his face twisted in thought. Answer? Answer? What did that mean?

  Hadn’t the ghost of King Arthur I said something about an answer? That meant . . .

  “You’re supposed to ask us a question!” Artie blurted.

  “None shall pass.”

  “That’s right, lad! Perceval hinted the same thing back in the olden days!”

  The guardian stammered, “I . . . I . . .”

  “Ask us the question,” Artie insisted.

  “It’s just that, well—no one’s come for the Grail for eighty-two years, and besides, no one has made it as far as you have since this Perceval that the little fellow just mentioned. . . .”

  Artie bristled. “Are you trying to say that you’ve forgotten the question?”

  The creature hung his head. “Y-yes.”

  “What?” Kay yelled. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “Perceval and the Grail knights—they were here so long ago!” he cried defensively.

  Artie turned a small circle, thinking.

  “Did Sir Perceval ever tell it to you, Master Thumb?” Bercilak asked.

  “No, of course not. The Grail was one of the biggest secrets anywhere, at any time.”

  “Guardian,” Numinae announced in an officious voice, “you are derelict. If you cannot administer your duties, lower this barrier and let us leave. Since you are not fit, we shall pass!”

  Artie waved his hand. “It’s all right,” he said loudly. Everyone was quiet, including the flummoxed guardian. “Because I know the answer.”

  “Lad, how would you know the answer to an unasked question?”

  “A friend told it to me,” Artie said. “Listen, guardian: If I give you this answer, then you will let us go?”

  The guardian stroked his chin. “I suppose I have to. But you just get one try! I do remember that. Get it right, and you may leave with the Grail. Get it wrong, and you will be stuck here forever!” He pointed to the undead knights in the mud pit below.

  “Understood,” Artie said confidently.

  “You sure about this, Art?” Kay asked.

  “Don’t worry. I got this.”

  “Okay, lad,” Thumb said. “Let him have it.”

  Artie took a deep breath and said, “The answer is ‘me.’”

  The faceless guardian didn’t speak at first. But then he laced his fingers together proudly and said, “Wrong.”

  Artie stamped his foot and pointed to the exact spot where the Fisher King had sat. “No! That man was . . . King Arthur Pendragon. Or it was his body, at least. His ghost told me. And I am King Arthur remade, so the answer is ‘me.’ If you want to be technical about it, the answer is ‘King Arthur,’ plain and simple. But that is who I am. That is me!”

  In spite of his facial handicap, the man appeared shocked. “That’s . . . that’s correct. And now I remember: the question was, ‘Who had the Fisher King once been?’”

  Kay pumped her fist silently. The guardian stepped to the side and said quietly, “You may pass.”

  “Well done, lad!”

  “Huzzah!” Bercilak buzzed.

  Artie beamed, super proud of himself. But then he had a terrible thought. “Wait; all of us can go, right?”

  “Yes, Grail King,” the guardian said.

  “Whew!” Artie walked to the giant doors and put a hand on them. They opened easily, revealing a stone spiral staircase. Before leaving, he looked at the guardian and said, “Thank you. Thank you for keeping it safe.”

  But the man didn’t say anything. He co
uldn’t. His mouth had sealed shut. The zombies below wailed and cried as they were sucked into the muck, their bodies falling apart, as if some spell had released them from their misery. And then, right before Artie’s eyes, the guardian turned to dust and fell into a pile on the floor.

  “Whoa!” Kay said. “Looks like you did everyone here a solid, Art.”

  Artie tilted his head. “I guess so.” He grasped Kay by the arm. “Now let’s go revive our father.”

  “Heck yeah!”

  Artie bounded up the stairs, Kay on his heels. The rest followed in a tight formation, Numinae hoisting Thumb onto his broad shoulders. As Artie ran he tried a lunae lumen, but it still didn’t work. They ran for the equivalent of six flights of stairs before Artie stopped to catch his breath. “Man, I hope it’s not much higher,” Kay said.

  “We’re getting there,” Thumb announced, even smaller. “If my size is any indication, we’re closer to somewhere on your side.”

  They continued on. It was way more than six more flights. Twenty at least. By the time they reached the end, they were soaked with sweat. Even Bercilak, who had no obvious reason to get tired, announced, “That’s going to smart in the morning!”

  The end of the line was a wooden trapdoor. Artie reached out and pushed. It was locked. No problem—he sliced it to pieces with Excalibur. Wood and nails rained down on them, but they didn’t care, for the light of a bright sunny day streamed into the stairwell. Artie clambered out.

  The door opened atop a stone tower built on a tall, round hill, with a picturesque countryside sprawling out in all directions. Big clouds marched lazily across the sky like white elephants. To the west and north a far-off storm was brewing. Looking around, they found that the building was roofless and hollow, and that they were in fact standing on what was essentially the wall of a square tower. Driving home that they were not in the Otherworld, a few tourists with cameras and cell phones milled around at ground level taking pictures.

  “Where are we, sire?” Bedevere asked.

  “Looks like England,” Artie said.

  “This is Glastonbury Tor,” Thumb said assuredly.

  “Ah. Smashing,” Bercilak said.

  Numinae took cover near one of the crenellations. “We shouldn’t stay. Can’t have any of those poor people seeing me.” He pointed at the tourists.

  Artie shook his head. “No. Or you, Bercilak.”

  But Bercilak didn’t hear him. He was too busy craning his torso over the edge, his massive metal hands planted on the stone. “It’s grand, sire! Just grand. Much nicer than I thought it would be.”

  “Lad, we should be going,” Thumb said, staring at the dark part of the sky.

  “I know, I know.” Artie prepared to open a moongate back to Avalon.

  “No, I mean it. We should be going!” Thumb insisted. Numinae risked standing, and in that same moment the sky went completely dark, as if someone had switched off the sun.

  “Merlin!” Kay yelped, pointing high above.

  Artie spun frantically in every direction. “Where?”

  And then a terrible form fell from the clouds—a giant birdlike thing shrouded in mist—and simply plucked Bercilak from the edge, pulling him into the sky, screaming like a child and clanking like the empty suit of armor that he was.

  Kay reached after the Green Knight, but Bedevere restrained her. Lightning cracked overhead.

  “Lads, now is not the time to save our friend. We must leave here, gather our army, and stick to the plan!” Thumb insisted.

  It bothered Artie to abandon Bercilak so quickly, but Artie knew that Thumb was right. “Lunae lumen!” he said quietly, and the pommel stone glowed. A moongate crackled open and then closed around the group, carrying them away from the ancient hill called Glastonbury Tor and back to the secret isle of Avalon.

  WIZARDLY INTERLUDE NUMBER THREE (OR, MERLIN’S PLANS LAID BARE)

  “The Grail! The Grail! Congratulations to them, I suppose. But it won’t stop me. No, it won’t stop me at all!”

  Merlin paced in the computer room near the array of sangrealite stones and still-humming mainframes.

  “It can’t stop me,” he said to himself. “And now that the fool Green Knight, the one called Bercilak, is on his way to me, Lord Numinae will know exactly where to find me. Ah, I am good. And I am ready.”

  He clapped his hands greedily and stopped pacing. The floor between the stones was pockmarked and worn as black as pitch. The wires leading from them were frayed and the sangrealite in the stoup was gone, used up.

  Merlin looked over this array proudly. “I am very ready.”

  It had worked. He’d mustered the foot soldiers of his army. They were aboveground, waiting in a giant field tent overlooking the sea. They had been outfitted with simple armor and all manner of weapons. Battle was in their future. A strange battle that Merlin knew he would win.

  He reached over and threw a big electrical switch. Lights twinkled off and fans ceased to spin and drives stood still. The computers shut down, having served their purpose. All the years spent learning code and programming had paid off. The game called Otherworld had been an unequivocal success. It had brought him Artie Kingfisher, and now it had done this.

  He left the computer room and made his way to the chamber with the huge cage. “Agorwch,” he said when he reached it, and the cage door swung wide. Lights simultaneously beamed on from all corners of the enclosure. The creature had never seen so much light. It jostled and hissed as its black eyes adjusted. The hooves of its hind legs banged the cage’s floor. It reared, scratching the air with forepaws each the size of a compact car. Its neck writhed, and its head knocked into the cage’s uppermost bars.

  “Easy, pet, easy.” Merlin pointed his cane at the earthen roof of the chamber. It cracked open, revealing a gray sky. Rain fell into the room.

  The creature roared and then settled.

  “Come out. You are free now. Free to serve me.”

  Its head emerged from the cage. From the tip of its nose to the base of its neck it was a black snake, scaly and smooth. Pale, cambered fangs as long as scimitars dived from its upper mandible, dripping with a translucent liquid like mother-of-pearl. Its head was the size of a dinner table. The snake tongue darted in and out as it sniffed the air.

  Merlin rubbed his fingers together. “It’s all right, dear. Come out and play.”

  From the shoulders to its sternum the creature was a giant, dark-spotted leopard. Its fur was nearly black, its darker spots like ebony eyelets. The head lowered to Merlin’s level and the tongue sniffed some more.

  A gurgle came from its stomach.

  “Hungry, eh? Let’s go inspect our forces. There is sure to be a morsel or two for you.”

  The creature exited the cage completely and switched its short white tail back and forth. From the sternum to the rump it had the high, powerful body of an enormous white stag. Merlin held out an open hand, and the snake head lowered over his fingertips. He scratched its chin. Its eyelids drooped with pleasure.

  Merlin peeked around his creation. From nose to tail it was sixty feet long. A thin line of sangrealite marked where the snake met the leopard, and where the leopard met the stag, as if the animal were stitched together with the mercurial element.

  “My Questing Beast. The dragons will have met their match with you and your Questlings.”

  On cue, a chorus of wails and bleats erupted from a room in another section of Merlin’s caves where the Questlings were kept. All together there were one hundred creatures just like the Questing Beast in every way but size.

  The worlds had not seen a creature such as this since the days of Arthur the First. But this beast was different from that medieval monster. In addition to its increased size, Merlin had outfitted it with a set of massive wings identical to those found on a magnificent Argentine bird. This Questing Beast could fly. Best of all, at the back of the creature’s mouth, there was a small tube that curled into its throat, through its sinuses, and into its ear canal. P
lugged into its ears were little receptors that were sensitive not just to sound but also to Merlin’s spellcasting. At his choosing, Merlin could channel any magic through the creature’s head and out of its mouth. It was like having a dragon with unlimited breath attacks. Fire, ice, poison, acid, slime, mud, bees, snowflakes, odors—the attack was only limited by Merlin’s imagination and his ability, the latter of which had no limits, not now, not since he’d reached full strength.

  Fifty of the little Questlings had similar contraptions built into their heads.

  All together they would be unstoppable. “Bring your dragons, King,” Merlin cooed. “I have them beat.” Then Merlin thrust his owl-headed cane to the ceiling. “Up, pet!”

  The Questing Beast gathered its haunches and peeled its wings from its body. As it took off, Merlin grabbed a hind leg. Up it went. Spry as a cat, Merlin climbed onto the Beast’s rear end. He worked his way over its back and dug his fingers into the leopard fur at its midsection. “There!” he pronounced, indicating an opening in a crisscross of leather and rope strung across the chamber. The Questing Beast flew for it and threaded its long neck through the opening. The straps and ties met its skin and drew tight. At the apex of this arrangement was a simple leather saddle with a high horn, shiny and smooth as if it had been ridden for years. Merlin waved his cane left then right, and the straps wrapped around the neck and behind the front legs and buckled themselves. Merlin jumped into the saddle and effortlessly slipped his feet into the stirrups. Blunt metal spurs extended from his heels like claws. He kicked the creature so hard he drew blood. “Go!” Merlin shouted, pointing the cane toward the heavens. The creature bellowed and beat its wings and pulled into the sky, rain pelting Beast and rider.

  Merlin deposited his cane in a sheath at his ankle so that it stood upright and at the ready. He grabbed the saddle horn with both hands and guided the creature toward the field tent that fluttered in the sea-borne wind.

  They reached it in seconds, and the Beast pulled up and settled on the ground.