by Mari Mancusi
His mother laughed and said something in reply, but Arthur could barely hear her. He was too busy staring at the screen, watching images of people searching for the missing boy out in the woods. A thought suddenly struck him: was anyone searching for him back home? After all, he'd been gone around the same amount of time as this boy had been. And here, they'd already sent out a search party. Had anyone back home even realized Arthur was gone? Well, besides Mistress McCready, that was, who was probably only noticing the unwashed dishes piling up in the castle kitchen.
His mind flashed to Guinevere. She had to be worried, right? After all, he'd promised to meet her at the tournament that afternoon. What did she think when he didn't show up? Was she, right now, as worried about him as this father was about his son? He stared at the TV—at the tears now streaming down Stu's father's face. What if Guinevere was crying as well? Did she think he'd abandoned her? Left her to fend for herself against the brutal knights like Agravaine who hoped to lock her up forever?
His heart panged. She was so kind and loyal and true. How could he just leave her behind? She was his best friend—his true love—even if the laws of the land said they could never be together. How could he content himself to live in a world where Guinevere had been dead a thousand years?
He couldn't. He had to go home.
“Where's Sophie?” he blurted out. Now that he'd made up his mind, there was no time to waste. He'd find her and beg her for a second chance. Hopefully she wouldn't be too angry to show him the way back. After all, he had no idea how to go about it without her help.
Lucas looked at him strangely. “Sophie Sawyer?” he asked. “Um, I imagine she's at home with her family.” Then he brightened. “Oh! Speaking of, she wanted me to show you something!”
Arthur's pulse kicked up a notch. Sophie wanted Lucas to show him something. Maybe it was the way to go home. Maybe he could do it tonight and get back to Camelot before midnight. Return the scabbard to Merlin, find Guinevere and apologize, even get a head start on the dishes!
“Show me,” he said.
Lucas nodded and the two boys headed up the stairs and into the large bedroom they'd been sharing. Lucas sat down at his magic box and started typing away. “Sophie was insisting that I show you how to play Camelot's Honor tonight,” he said as he typed. “Are you into videogames or something?”
Arthur shook his head, not quite sure what his friend was going on about. All he knew was that if Sophie wanted him to see it, it probably had something to do with going home.
As he watched the magic box's screen, the window came to life, revealing a vision of a knight, impressively dressed in a full set of chainmail from head to toe and carrying a large sword and shield. “That’s my character,” Lucas explained. “I'm level seventy-nine, baby. But, don't worry, we'll make you your own. Do you want to do single player or online?”
“Uh…”
Lucas waved him off. “Single player is probably best to start. You get more of the story that way.” He pressed a few more buttons, which made a clicking sound. The box whirred and the next thing Arthur knew, the knight had disappeared and in its place stood a tall, scrawny boy, dressed only in a tunic and tights, much like Arthur normally was. In fact, he even looked a little like Arthur—with straw-blond hair, blue eyes, and gangly legs and arms that seemed too long for his body.
“Don’t worry—as you play, you get more armor and weapons and stuff. Right now you’re still a peasant boy, working at the castle of Sir Ector.”
Arthur glanced over at him sharply. “Sir Ector?”
“Hm.” Lucas considered him thoughtfully. “Maybe you should watch the intro first. It’s pretty cool cinematics actually and this way you’ll get the whole storyline.” He rose from the chair and beckoned for Arthur to sit down. “It’s like five minutes long. I’ll get us a snack while you watch.”
Arthur sat down in front of the box. He could almost feel the magic radiating from its core, and his hands began to tremble in anticipation. As Lucas exited the room, the screen went black and music started to swell. A moment later, a large, ornate sword, stuck in a stone, revealed itself on the window. He recognized it immediately. Excalibur, the blade of legends. He wondered fleetingly if anyone had pulled it from the stone at the tournament as Guinevere had predicted.
“I AM MERLIN!”
Shocked, Arthur leapt to his feet, knocking his chair backwards, his heart in his throat at the sound of his mentor’s voice. “M-merlin?” he whispered, looking around the room for the wizard. “Where are you?”
Silence. Then, “You are Arthur, a young orphan boy of no regard,” Merlin’s disembodied voice continued. The screen dissolved, revealing the blond boy once again, practicing swordcraft against an old oak tree, much as Arthur had been doing just days before back home. It was uncanny, to say the least.
“You dream of becoming a great knight,” Merlin rebuked him, “but instead you spend most of your days working as a servant in your foster family's castle. Until now.”
Arthur stood, transfixed. It was obvious Merlin was furious at him for falling into the Well of Dreams. But still, did he have to bring up the part about his humble birth? It wasn’t like Arthur might have accidentally forgotten.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized to the sorcerer. “I was trying to get to the tournament but I heard this sound and—”
Merlin ignored him. “Your simple life is about to change—as you begin to discover your great and wondrous destiny.”
Arthur cocked his head in confusion. “Wait. Destiny…?” he repeated. “What destiny?”
“The sword in the stone,” Merlin replied, surprising him with his answer. And sure enough, once again the box revealed the legendary blade, embedded in a rock. “Only you have the power to free the mighty Excalibur from its rocky prison.”
Arthur scrunched up his face. “But I can’t pull the sword from the stone,” he protested. “They’d never even let me try.”
“Good luck, Arthur. The next time I see you all will be bowing down to you and calling you…King!”
And with that, triumphant music rose and the window faded to black. Merlin’s voice fell into the nether.
“Wait! Come back!” Arthur cried. “I need to know more!”
“Need to know more what?” Lucas asked, pushing the door open, heavily laden with a plate of cookies. He set it down on a large chest and came over to sit next to Arthur.
Arthur pointed a shaky finger at the box. “Merlin was there. And he was telling me my destiny.”
“Oh right,” Lucas said, not sounding at all surprised. “Well, you’ve got to play the game to find out the rest. But really it follows the King Arthur story pretty faithfully.”
“King…Arthur?” Arthur repeated carefully.
Lucas frowned. “Yeah, King Arthur. You know. Sword in the Stone, Knights of the Round Table, Quest for the Holy Grail?” At Arthur’s blank face, he added. “Lancelot, Guinevere? None of this rings a bell?”
Arthur shook his head, confusion washing over him in waves. King Arthur. How could he be King Arthur? And how did Lucas know about Guinevere?
Lucas shrugged. “Weird. I would have thought everyone knew the story.” He reached over and grabbed a small black device beside the magic box. A mouse, Arthur remembered, though it looked like no rodent he'd ever seen. A moment later the screen changed—now displaying one large word, written in big colorful letters.
“Goo-gle?”
Lucas grinned. “The answer to all of life’s mysteries at the touch of a button.” He entered “KING ARTHUR” using the keyboard and a moment later a list of text scrolled down the window. He selected one, then leaned back, allowing Arthur to see. “Here you go, the legend of King Arthur,” he proclaimed. “For your reading pleasure.” He rose from his seat. “Want a cookie?”
Arthur shook his head, no longer hungry. His heart thudded as he tried to focus on the words in front of him. A legend that may be true. Of a young boy who pulled the sword from the stone and beca
me king of all England. A boy named Arthur.
He leaned back in his chair, stunned. Could he really be destined to be king of England? Was this what Merlin had been training him for all these years? He'd always wondered in the back of his mind why the great and powerful sorcerer bothered with an orphan like him. Had Merlin known his true heritage all along?
He smiled, imagining the look on his foster brother's face as he took the throne—subjects far and wide, on their knees, paying their respects. Kay would have to bow too. He'd have to beg forgiveness for all the wrongs he'd committed against Arthur all those years.
And then there was Guinevere. Beautiful, sweet Guinevere. She'd no longer be stuck with Agravaine or some other brutal old lord who would lock her away in a tower for the rest of her life. He could marry her. And they could do all they dreamed about—feeding the hungry, righting the wrongs . . .
“What else do you know about this King Arthur?” Arthur asked his friend, his mouth stuck in a self-conscience grin. He couldn't wait to hear about his exploits. All the good he brought to the land. How the people all loved him.
“Well, he was kind of a wimp,” Lucas replied. “And he managed to screw everything up in the end.”
Arthur's smile faded. “Um, what?”
Lucas grinned excitedly. “Like, first it starts out really good. He has all these awesome battles to unite England and stuff. But then as soon as you think he has it all, he totally falls apart. Over a chick nonetheless.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he's married to this chick named Guinevere, But then she starts hooking up with his best friend Sir Lancelot. Nice friend, right?” Lucas made a face. “And Arthur totally knows it's going on the whole time—but he's so in love with Guinevere he doesn't say anything. Completely whipped, let me tell you.”
Arthur stared at him in horror. Guinevere betrays him? With his best friend no less? That couldn't be true. Could it?
But Lucas wasn't finished. “Then this knight Mordred, who is dying to take over as king, finds out and sees his chance,” he continued. “He catches Lancelot and Guinevere together and tells all the other knights what happened, to prove to the kingdom that Arthur's getting screwed over. So then, of course, Arthur's forced to make a move—or he looks like a total butthead.”
Arthur didn't know what a butthead was, but he was pretty sure from Lucas's tone he didn't want to look like one.
“So now it's Lancelot versus Arthur in this big civil war. All over a freaking chick.” Lucas shook his head. “Bros before hos, man. It’s a lesson we all need to learn.”
Arthur swallowed hard. “So what happens then?”
Lucas shrugged. “You know, the usual. Kingdom destroyed. Loyal subjects murdered. It's ugly, dude. Mordred ends up killing Arthur on the battlefield and taking over the throne, just like he planned to all along. Seriously, if Arthur had known what was in store for him, he probably never would have pulled the sword from the stone in the first place.”
Arthur stared at him, having no idea what to say and no longer having a voice to say it, even if he did.
Lucas shrugged. “Listen, man, I've got a ton of homework to do. You're welcome to keep playing or whatever.” He pulled out a large book from his sack and lay back in bed, cracking it open.
Arthur nodded absently, his eyes still glued to the box’s window, reading the stories one by one, each more horrifying than the next. And all the while he read, his friend's words continued to burn in his ears.
If Arthur had known what was in store for him, he probably never would have pulled the sword from the stone in the first place.
Chapter 28
A flash of lightning lit the dark, stormy battlefield, a crack of thunder hot on its heels. The skies opened and hail the size of golf balls rained down, brutally pelting King Arthur’s armor without relent. But the man ignored the weather, head held high as he urged his steed forward, across bloody Camlann, searching for any still living after the massacre that afternoon.
The air grew thick as he approached the lake and he could barely see the hand in front of his face. It was no real surprise, then, when a fiery spear from some hidden enemy pierced through the mists, barreling straight into his horse’s flanks. The mare, already spooked by the suffocating stench of death, whinnied in a mixture of pain and terror, rearing on her hind legs and effectively throwing her rider. The king crashed to the ground, the muddy field thankfully breaking his fall. As he scrambled to his feet, he watched in dismay as the wounded animal galloped away, disappearing into the mists.
With no choice but to press on, the king made his way on foot, careful to step over the corpses littering the field. Good men, he thought as he nodded in respect to each as he passed. Brave farmers, loyal townspeople, those who had remained faithful to the crown until the very end. But these common folk were no match for their enemy—the king’s own companions—the infamous Knights of the Round Table—now turned traitor to the crown in this violent civil war.
Would all he fought for in his life, all the peace he’d brought to the land, now be for naught?
If only Lancelot hadn’t had eyes for Queen Guinevere. He should have accused them both of treason the first time he got wind of their affair, sending them to fiery deaths at the stake in a public display of power. But no, he’d turned a blind eye, not having the heart to strike down the two people he loved more than anything, even if they loved each other more than they loved him.
But by doing so, he’d showed himself to be soft. Ripe for a takeover by Mordred who called him out, saying he was a stupid, blind man, unable to rule over his own household, never mind the kingdom at large. Mordred called for war and the knights, disgusted by Arthur’s weakness, joined the revolution.
“Arthur! Turn and face me like a man!”
Speak of the devil. The king whirled around, his eyes rising to a dark knight, high above him, astride a coal black steed. He’d know that blood red tabard anywhere.
“Surrender, Arthur,” Mordred commanded in a steely voice, drawing his blade from its sheath. “For it is over. Your men are dead. Your kingdom is mine.”
“You may as well try to kill me then,” he said, suddenly weary of the fight. “For while there is still breath in my body, I shall never give up Camelot.”
Mordred brought his sword down, giving Arthur barely any time to parry the blow with his own blade. He leapt back, but Mordred was on him in an instant, his horseback stance giving him ultimate advantage. The blows rained down on the king, striking again and again, wearing Arthur out with each heavy strike.
Hot pain seared Arthur’s side, the last blow finding the seam in his armor, slicing through the unprotected skin and bone beneath. When Mordred pulled back the blade the king saw the steel was soaked with blood.
The world spun and he found himself falling to the ground, agony stealing his final breaths. From above, his spotty vision caught his son removing his helmet, looking down at him with pitying eyes.
“If only you had made another choice.”
*
Arthur woke with a start, drenched in a pool of sweat, the nightmare still pounding at his brain. No, not merely a nightmare. Nightmares faded with the dawn, but this horror was not so easily shaken. He clutched his side, reliving the phantom ache where Mordred’s blade had sliced him open. A painful reminder of the mortal wound he’d one day suffer in real life, according to about a hundred Googled texts.
The perfect life turned into a perfect nightmare. Gaining the world, only to lose it all in the end. Like everything else in Arthur's life, his future would just rack up to another bitter failure.
And then there was Guinevere. Could she really do what they said she did?
He couldn't bear to think about it.
He sat up in bed, giving up on sleep. Perhaps a short walk would ease his mind. Slipping out of bed, he tiptoed to the door, tossing the magic box a reproachful look as he passed. Not that it was the box’s fault; it only revealed the truth.
If only Merlin knew what a lousy king he'd become, he'd have probably left him on the roadside to die as a baby. Instead, the magician had done everything in his power to help Arthur succeed. How disappointed he would be when he found out that his protégée would fail when it mattered most. Fail and destroy the lives of all those around him.
It would be much better if he didn't pull the sword from the stone from the start.
Arthur slipped downstairs and was surprised to see a light bathing the kitchen with a warm yellow glow. Someone must be up. Not wanting to disturb whoever it was, he touched the handle of the front door, attempting to pull it open quietly. But the hinges squeaked in protest and a moment later Lucas's mother appeared from the kitchen.
“Who's there?” she called in a worried voice. Her expression softened to a smile as she stepped closer and saw Arthur. “Sorry,” she said. “I'm jumping at ghosts tonight.”
“I didn't mean to scare you,” Arthur assured her. “I just couldn't sleep. I thought I might take some air.”
She smiled sympathetically. “I know the feeling,” she said. “Do you want some warm milk? That always helps Lucas when he can’t sleep.” She beckoned for him to follow her into the small, cozy kitchen. He slipped into a chair and she bustled about, pulling two glasses from the cupboard and setting a pan on the stovetop. She took a clear carton out of a cupboard and emptied white liquid from it into the pan. Then she grabbed a little box labeled “cinnamon” from another cupboard and sprinkled it on top.
“My secret sleeping draught,” she said, looking over at Arthur with a wink. “Warm milk. Works every time.” She stirred the mixture, humming softly to herself. Arthur watched her, the terror of his dream fading at last. She was so nice. Just like he’d always imagined his own mother would be.
“So why couldn’t you sleep?” she asked as she brought a mug of frothy white liquid over to the table and set it down before him. Steam rose from the cup, evaporating quickly in the air.
Suddenly Arthur had the urge to tell her everything. But he bit his tongue; nice as she was, she wouldn’t understand. “I…I had a bad dream,” he said instead. If only it were just a dream.
