By Force Alone

by Lavie Tidhar

  A mountain hollowed.

  And Guinevere thinks, uneasily – Leir had said this was only a fragment that fell off the larger star stone.

  The thought fills her with nameless horror. She reaches blindly, realises with surprise she’s found a hand, warm and dry. Arthur’s. He holds her hand, wordlessly. There’s comfort in the touch.

  She says, ‘We have to get out of here.’

  *

  But there’s no getting out. There is a rumble overhead. There is the sound of a landslide, of rocks in motion, crashing, crushing. There are screams, cut short.

  Then she sees it’s not a rock slide. It’s mountain trolls.

  Gigantic, rock-formed, malignant shapes. Their teeth are gold. Their eyes are moss-green. Thin strands of grey metal run through their stony bodies. That invisible radiance, what the Romans in their tongue call radium.

  Those strips of radium and such. The miners cower from the trolls. Between the giant creatures steps the queen. The lady Elaine in all her splendour. She too is radiant. And she alone is smiling.

  ‘I do not like the looks of this at all,’ says Guinevere.

  But Arthur’s hand is warm and dry in hers. Their shoulders touch. And there’s a warmth in Guinevere she hadn’t felt before. Or not like this.

  It’s fucking disconcerting, is what it is.

  Behind the queen, dragged on a chain, are people she knows well.

  ‘Oh, fuck.’

  There’s Laudine, there’s Enid, there’s Luned and Isolde. Looking furious, and beat up, and weaponless, hands and feet bound by the slaver’s chains.

  ‘Your women?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He nods at the advancing prisoners. ‘My men.’

  She sees them. There’s a slithery little prick – ‘Merlin. My wizard.’ He points out a giant green man. ‘The Green Knight. We call him Bercilak. That small guy next to him, that’s my foster-brother, Kay. He is my steward.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Soldiers.’

  And she knows he means, expendable.

  There is a ramp in the heart of the pit and the procession moves towards it slowly. Heaps of old stones have been thrown there in times past until it became a compacted tor, and now the queen is raised up there by her minions, and torches are set and lit, and a ring of flames rises, and the prisoners are placed to kneel at the queen’s feet.

  She raises her arms. Turns and turns. They can see her perfectly. That beautiful face. That savage grin. This woman is in full control of her domain.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are!’

  Her voice carries. Arthur clutches Guinevere’s hand.

  ‘I know you’re there! Did you really think to evade me?’

  Elaine of Corbenic is amused, serene. To her this is a game, Guinevere realises. There is no outcome she can see that isn’t in her favour.

  ‘King Arthur!’ She spits that word, king, with such contempt that Guinevere flinches.

  ‘You could have been great, serving beside me, my consort! I would have given you power beyond mortal ken!’

  ‘If I wanted to be someone’s fuck toy I may as well have stayed with Morgause,’ Arthur mutters.

  ‘Who?’

  He shakes his head. ‘There are too many women in my life recently.’

  But he glances at her and smiles when he says it.

  ‘And you, Guinevere! You could have served as my lieutenant! Word of your deeds has reached even here. Together we would be magnificent. Join me! Both of you. Come claim your rightful places by my side.’

  ‘At her feet, she means,’ Guinevere says, and Arthur surprises her by laughing. It’s such a childish sound, and it’s clear he’s not used to it.

  ‘Or else!’ Elaine screams.

  The queen gestures. A sword is placed into her hands. A shining sword, of gold and radium, for all that it must have a core of steel.

  Guinevere sees Merlin. The little wizard’s swaying, looking ill. He’s drenched in sweat. But she has no time to feel sorry for him. The Choir of Angels fight in vain against their chains. Elaine of Corbenic brings up the sword.

  ‘A single cut is poison in the blood,’ says Arthur.

  Guinevere watches in horror. ‘We have to stop her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He lets go of her hand. She’s strangely disappointed. He turns to Ulla. She’s been standing there, as quiet as a mouse.

  ‘Can you get us down there?’

  The little leprechaun girl makes a face at him. ‘She’ll kill us all,’ she says.

  ‘I have a plan.’

  ‘Really…’ Guinevere murmurs. But she knows they have no choice.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are!’ the queen screams. Then the sword swings, and Guinevere is mute in fear and revulsion. The sword slices through air and hits Luned in the neck. The Green Knight, with a roar of hatred, throws one enormous fist and brings the whole chain up with him. He lashes at the queen.

  ‘Down, you abomination! Down!’

  ‘Luned!’

  ‘Don’t look,’ says Arthur. He takes her hand away. Guinevere looks for Ulla, but Ulla is gone.

  Together and alone, Arthur and Guinevere follow the mountain path down into the pit.

  44

  ‘Stop!’

  The crowd parts for them. Guinevere looks at them now, the puckered, pussing skin, the wounds, the hollow eyes. A sickness of radiance, she thinks. She and Arthur make their way through the throng to the dais of the queen of Maiden’s Castle.

  The mountain trolls glare down on them. Leprechauns dart in the dim light. And Guinevere thinks, we are lost.

  They climb up to where she awaits them. The prisoners in chains, and poor Luned with that awful wound in her neck, the cut had not been clean. There is a lot of blood.

  Elaine of Corbenic smiles at them in radiance. She’s glowing. The golden sword is in her hand.

  ‘A shame,’ she says. ‘I would have started on your Merlin.’

  ‘It’s Merlin,’ says the wizard – pale and sweating, with the shakes. ‘It’s a name, it’s a—oh, forget it.’ He sags to the ground.

  ‘Please,’ Arthur says. ‘I’d like to keep him. For sentimental reasons.’

  ‘He is part fae, and such as his have no place in my new world order,’ says the queen.

  Guinevere: ‘Excuse me?’

  Arthur, in an aside: ‘Don’t get her started. It’s her thing.’

  ‘They’re nothing but mere superstition,’ says Elaine of Corbenic. ‘You wouldn’t understand, not yet, at least. But the time of legends is coming to an end. This much I have seen, this much is clear to me. So much is clearer now, in the light of the star stone. Its true nature is not yet manifest to you. But it is to me. In the new world I shall create, logic will flourish. Pure mathematics! I shall build a perfect world, to rival and surpass the empires of Greece, Persia and Rome. With the power of the star stone I shall prevail! I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds!’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Guinevere says involuntarily.

  ‘Mad?’ Elaine laughs. Her laugh echoes in the pit. ‘You call me mad? Look around you!’ She spreads her arms wide, encompassing the spluttering torches, the enslaved workers, the seams of silver and gold in the walls. ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps!’

  ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

  Elaine gestures. Arthur, as though moonstruck, walks to her. His hand when it leaves Guinevere’s gives a little squeeze. A promise of some sort, perhaps. Just before he turns, he pops something in his mouth.

  Elaine draws him to her. At that moment her power seems absolute. This really is her world, what the Greeks might have call a eu-topia, a good place. It’s her good place. Made in her twisted image. She glows.

  She pulls Arthur to her.

  He comes without resisting.

  She grabs his chin. She pulls him roughly to her, leans in for a kiss.

  Their lips meet. Their mouths open hungrily. Arthur holds
her, dips her back. His mouth opens wide. And something passes, from his mouth to hers.

  She chokes and swallows.

  She pushes him away.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘What!’

  She spreads her arms. She shines – she burns. She stares around her in outraged confusion. She is so hot she glows. The light begins inside her, shines through her skin, her pores. Fine lines of light appear along her arms and face. She’s made of gold. She is enchanted and enchanting both at once.

  The lines of light become cracks opening onto a sun.

  The light that shines forth is blinding.

  Arthur screams, ‘Run!’

  Guinevere pivots. Down below she sees a tiny figure appear. Ulla, holding a man’s sword in her small arms. She grins up at Guinevere and tosses the sword.

  Guinevere catches it, swings. The blade hits the prisoners’ chain, cuts through the metal with a terrible screech. The prisoners scramble up, turn to flee. Behind them all, Elaine of Corbenic is a golden statue of flame.

  She roars.

  They run.

  They jump over the edge just as Elaine of Corbenic explodes.

  *

  The Angels curse. They’re filled with righteous rage. Isolde headbutts one of the maiden’s soldiers, grabs her sword. She roars with glee. She leads the charge. They flee.

  ‘Hey, that sword is mine,’ says Arthur.

  ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘Her name’s Excalibur.’

  ‘Of course it’s a she.’

  Why do men always do that? She swishes the sword, stabs another soldier through the heart, helps her down, takes her sword for her own. She hands Excalibur back to Arthur.

  ‘What the fuck did you do to Elaine of Corbenic?’

  He looks sheepish. ‘I ate a piece of the star stone.’

  Guinevere stares at him in horror. ‘It’s poison!’

  ‘I hid it in my mouth and passed it to her in the kiss. I didn’t know what to expect but not… that…’

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I don’t feel so well, but I’ll worry about that later. We have to get out of here.’

  The Merlin’s pretty useless. The Green Knight roars and hits with bare fists, and people fly away from the giant. The steward helps the wizard along. The Choir of Angels lead the way, slashing and stabbing, and people flee. There is total disorder.

  Far ahead, a tunnel mouth. There has to be an exit. They slash and fight their way towards it. They stab and kill. They almost reach it.

  Out of the tunnel mouth emerge two figures.

  Legate Agrippa, of Byzantium.

  Ambassador Bahram, of Persia.

  With eyes glazed, with hands outstretched.

  With foam in their mouths.

  Showing sharp teeth.

  ‘Fucking kill them!’

  ‘Grrrr!’

  The swords flash. The two crazed men duck the swords, somehow. They reach for the party. They bite.

  ‘Fucking get him off me! Fucking get him off of me!’ Enid screams.

  Legate Agrippa has his mouth fastened on her unarmoured arm. He tears chunks of flesh.

  ‘It burns! It burns!’

  Guinevere can only watch in horror. Isolde stabs the Legate. He grunts and lets go but the wound seems not to disturb him. He turns on Isolde. Enid slumps to the ground. She keens, an awful sound of pain and sorrow. Her eyes grow glazed. Her mouth foams.

  Some sort of sickness, Guinevere thinks. Again. Isolde backs away from the Legate. She doesn’t see how Enid rises stealthily, how she attempts to steal on Isolde, how her mouth opens to bite.

  Guinevere’s sword slashes. Enid’s head detaches.

  Her headless body sags to the ground, and she is at peace.

  ‘Motherfucker!’ Guinevere screams.

  The remaining Angels attack.

  They stab and slash and hack and bash.

  Legate and ambassador are pushed back.

  They lose chunks of themselves.

  They roar wordlessly. Their lips foam.

  They are reduced to piles of organs. They are destroyed.

  At last they’re done.

  There’s nothing left worth fighting.

  Behind the party there’s a roar. Those mountain trolls have found their purpose. And behind them come the others, mutatio, with arms outstretched and murder etched on their ruined faces.

  ‘Run!’

  They flee down the tunnel. It slopes sharply down. Guinevere skids and slides. She finds Arthur beside her. He reaches for her hand. Together they fly down the shaft, down and down—

  *

  They emerge into empty air.

  A dirty river down below, and they fall into the water, which is cold and bitter to the touch. Guinevere and Arthur cling to each other.

  A voice in her head, one that has been silent for too long.

  I love you… the worm says.

  It is close. She can feel it.

  Hungry… the worm says.

  ‘Now!’ Guinevere says.

  ‘Now?’ Arthur says, in bemusement.

  Now… the worm whispers, in her mind.

  *

  Everything happens kind of fast after that.

  *

  Behind the bedraggled travellers, an army of mutatio emerges from the pit.

  Arthur and Guinevere wash onto a ruined shore.

  On the hill overhead, the sound of horns. The silhouette of an army on horseback.

  Guinevere and Arthur, facing each other on the bank in the light of a silvery moon. Their faces close together.

  ‘I’m no good, you know,’ he tells her. ‘I think I could have been once but that path is closed.’

  She nestles closer into him. ‘I’m bad all over and inside,’ she says, ‘And I keep killing people.’

  ‘I suppose we are about to die anyway,’ he says. ‘But I was thinking, if we don’t, perhaps you’d like to come with me.’

  She stares at this stranger.

  ‘Go where?’ she says.

  ‘Anywhere. I mean,’ he gestures at the ruined bank and the approaching armies and the fog. ‘You could stay in this shithole, or you could come with me.’

  ‘So valiant,’ she says.

  He laughs.

  They kiss.

  That quickening of her heart, could it be love? His lips are rough, his hands are gentle. That heat inside her, like a star about to burst.

  Hungry… the worm says.

  Then it appears. High overhead. Descending. It’s like a bird, if birds were reptiles. The worm is hot. It breathes fire.

  The army of mutatio scatter. Over the hill comes the other army, and she can see it is her enemy. It is Sir Pelles and his men.

  Guinevere growls with hatred.

  ‘What the—’ Arthur says.

  The worm is white and huge and gormless.

  I love you! the worm says.

  ‘I love you too…’ Guinevere whispers.

  ‘I love you too,’ Arthur says.

  But Guinevere isn’t listening. And anyway, what is love for such as them? Two broken things, shaped into weapons. A sword does not feel love.

  She pulls her sword. The worm flies over Pelles and his army. Guinevere scrambles up the hill.

  *

  The army lies in tatters. Men burned, their horses dead or fled into the mist. She finds Sir Pelles. He stands, yet.

  ‘You,’ he says, with hatred.

  ‘We merely did your bidding, lord.’

  Their swords meet, clash. She slashes downwards.

  He screams.

  An awful, ugly wound runs through his groin and all down his thigh.

  ‘I dipped the blade in the dust of the star stone,’ she tells him. ‘May your wound never heal, lord.’

  She leaves him there, alive, a wounded king.

  The worm is gone when she returns to her party.

  From far-away: I love you…

  ‘I love you too, worm.’

  Not hungry…

  She sm
iles.

  The survivors band together on the riverbank.

  ‘I think I’ll take up farming,’ Isolde says, ‘it must be less harmful to your health.’

  Laudine tries for a smile and fails. Her eyes are full of sorrow. The wizard, Merlin, rubs his hands together as though trying to stay warm. He looks used up and haggard. They are a sorry sight.

  ‘Well?’ Arthur says.

  Guinevere looks away from him, to the river. A small figure comes floating down the stream like so much garbage, and she sees with sorrow that it is Ulla. In death, at least, she seems at peace. She watches as the little corpse floats down and down until it vanishes beyond the distant rapids.

  Guinevere turns back to Arthur.

  ‘Alright,’ she says.

  PART SEVEN

  KNIGHT-ERRANT

  45

  The barge from the north slides softly across the water into the docks of Londinium.

  There are arrow holes in the sides and the sail had caught fire at least once. The men who sail her look half-dead as they clamber out.

  The knights wait patiently for the cargo. Well-equipped, heavily armed, young and trained. They speak in low voices.

  ‘From the north, Agravain.’

  ‘From the king.’

  ‘What says he?’

  The captain hands the knight a rough parchment. Agravain scans it, lips moving as he reads.

  ‘He is alive, then.’

  ‘Was there ever any doubt?’

  ‘And Urien of the North is dead.’

  The men cheer softly.

  They offload a heavy trunk. Agravain opens it.

  Lancelot, in the shadows, watches.

  Well, well, he thinks. Isn’t this interesting.

  The contents of the trunk glow bold. They’re heavy objects made of gold. The men, with avarice, reach for the gold. Agravain barks an order.

  ‘Don’t. The king says they are poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned? Poisoned how?’

  He shrugs.

  Well, well, thinks Lancelot.

  He shadows the men as they escort the treasure. He needs to get closer, he thinks. He needs to have a proper look.

  He steps into the street. Bold as you please, before the company of knights.

  They stop and stare.

  ‘Do you not value your head, stranger? Get the fuck out of the way.’