by Peter David
Instead he saw a familiar figure. “Cook,” he said. “This is the second time you’ve been here in…what? Twelve hours?”
“Something like that,” rumbled the Secret Service agent. He walked over to Ron, who stood and shook his hand. Then Ron sank back into his chair, his head hanging low. “How’s she doing?”
“Same as before.”
“They still got no idea?”
“None.”
Cook paused, as if he knew something that he was reluctant to broach. Then, in a low voice, he said, “And you do?”
Ron looked up at him listlessly. “What gave you that impression?”
“Things you said, or didn’t say, when I was here earlier.” He paused, then said, “Mr. Cordoba, I know what happened. I know you quit. I don’t know why, but I know you’re out. That doesn’t mean that you can’t trust me, just because I’m still in the White House.”
“It’s not simply you, Cook. I don’t know whom to trust anymore. I don’t…” His voice trailed off.
“Mr. Cordoba…Ron…”
“You know what? If I can’t trust you…then screw it. Then all I’m doing is saying stuff you already know.” The listlessness evaporated, and a boiling anger surfaced in his eyes. “They did this to her, Cook. I know it in my heart.”
“They?”
“Yes.”
“They who?”
“The mysterious ‘they,’ Cook. Whoever they are…they’re behind this. For all I know, they’ve even got their tentacles into personnel at this hospital.” He stood and his fist was tightly clenched and trembling. “She collapsed after she took her vitamins. I told them to check the vitamins out. They said they were normal, ordinary vitamins. Now maybe…maybe whoever they are simply substituted the vitamins for that specific day. So the rest of the vitamins are okay. On the other hand, maybe they’ve got people in the labs, or maybe the doctors are in on it as well, or—”
“Ron,” Cook said firmly, gripping him by the shoulders, “your wife doesn’t need you coming apart right now. She needs you to—”
“To what? Dust her off if she starts gathering cobwebs?” He paced the room as he said, “I know what they want. They think I’m stupid. They think I wouldn’t figure it out. They put me into this situation that no one in the world should have to face because they don’t give a damn who gets hurt as long as they accomplish their goals…”
“Ron, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see? Don’t you get it?” His fist was still trembling. He knew he was spouting government secrets, and for all he knew, Cook was going to report back directly to Stockwell. But at that point, he simply didn’t give a damn. “The president wants to avoid sending in his…his storm troopers to the Grail Ale compound. So someone, somehow—CIA, maybe, or a black ops guy—sends my wife into a coma. And Grail Ale is sold out in all local stores…hell, up and down the East Coast. It’s damned near impossible to come by. If I had government resources behind me, I might be able to scare some up, but I don’t and I can’t. And even if it were accessible, he or they or whoever figure that I’ll want to go straight to the source. Nothing but the best for my Nellie. So naturally I’ll call Arthur, and he and Percival will come running with the Grail. And anywhere between the compound and here, they can intercept him, grab the Grail, and it’ll be in the government’s hands, which is what Stockwell wanted in the first place.”
“Do you really believe all that? That the president’s capable of such a thing?”
“Oh, I absolutely believe it,” said Ron tightly.
“But…what if you’re wrong? Then you’re holding off on calling in help from Arthur for no reason. Have you considered that?”
Ron leaned back against the wall, thumping the back of his head gently against it. “Yes. Of course I have. Of course there’s a possibility that I’m wrong. And Stockwell is probably hoping that that area of doubt, that margin for error, is where I’m going to pull the excuse from to call Arthur and get him out in the open.”
“I don’t understand. Why doesn’t POTUS just pursue legal recourse, if he feels that the Grail is something that should be in his possession? Eminent domain—”
“We were through all that, he and I. He wants to keep this quiet. He wants to get his hands on the Grail and have it fly under the radar, because the bottom line is that the American people trust and believe in Arthur more than they do Stockwell. And Stockwell’s approval ratings are nothing to write home about right now. If there’s a square off between Arthur and him in the public eye, Stockwell’s numbers are going to go down faster than a two-dollar whore. He doesn’t need that.” With a woebegone expression, he looked at Nellie. “So instead he needed her.”
“And you’re not going to call President Penn.”
“I can’t. I can’t take the chance. I…”
“Ron, she’s your wife…”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Ron said in a hoarse voice. He sounded as if he were strangling from within. “She’s my wife. That’s my child. They’re both in danger. But what happens to Arthur if the government’s waiting for him? What happens to the world if the wrong people get their hands on the Grail? I’m dying inside, Cook. With every beep of that damned monitor machine, I die a little more, and if Nellie and the baby don’t make it, chances are you can drag the Potomac for my drowned body because I’m not gonna see the point of continuing. But I can’t do it. I can’t call Arthur or Gwen and tell them that—”
“I did.”
Ron stared at him. “You did what?”
“I called.” Cook squared his shoulders as if prepared to take a punch to the face. “I called Gwen. I told her what happened. By this point, she’s probably told President Penn. They’re likely on their way right now.”
“No,” whispered Ron.
“Mr. Cordoba, I felt that—”
“Oh my God!”
“Sooner or later, it’s going to be in the newspapers,” Cook said reasonably. “Sooner or later, they were going to find out. It’s a miracle the story hasn’t broken yet. But it will, and if it’s going to be sooner or later, then it might as well be sooner—”
“How could you do that? You had no right—!”
“I had every right,” Cook shot back. “I had every right because we’re in this together.”
“In what?”
“This! This situation! This story! This…this grand adventure…”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We’re walking alongside myths, Mr. Cordoba,” said Cook. “You went on a quest. You think this stuff doesn’t rub off? You hang out with people of legend, and you wind up getting pulled into the legend. Fate is writing the story of King Arthur, and we’re part of it whether you like it or not. And I don’t see that fate lets it be that an innocent woman and baby die while the king hides in a compound. If the story needs a kick in the right direction, and you won’t do it, then I had to.”
“You’re insane!”
“No. I just read a lot.”
Ron buried his face in his hands. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
“I’ll grant you that,” admitted Cook. “But I got a funny feeling that, in pretty short order, we’re gonna find out.”
AT THAT MOMENT, Arthur was in a posture identical to that of Ron’s. He hadn’t moved from Barry’s office as Gwen filled him in on what Cook had told her. Barry watched the two of them with singular intensity, clearly fascinated by what Arthur was going to do.
It didn’t take the king long to render his decision. “We have to help her.”
“Aha!” Barry started.
Arthur immediately interrupted him before he could say another word. “Yes, Barry, I know. I had that coming. I have coming everything you no doubt want to say. And, frankly, I’ll be taking a chance using the Grail to heal Nellie. But it’s a chance I’ll take, a calculated risk. One last healing with the Grail. I cannot stand by and do nothing.”
“Well, that’s the question, is
n’t it, sir,” said Barry. “Is it about helping someone in need? Or is it about your ego, that you don’t want to feel helpless yourself?”
Arthur had no immediate answer, but then Barry gave a dismissive wave. “You know what? I take it back. You want to help her, you feel the need…so you’ll help her. That’s what you’re made of. Look…I’m sorry if I gave you a tough time.” He stood and extended a hand, and Arthur shook it firmly.
“I’m glad you understand…”
“Oh, I don’t remotely understand,” replied Barry. “But you gotta do what you gotta do. You guys get ready to go; I’ll go tell Percival that he’s going to be knocking off early today.”
“Thank you, Barry.”
“Eh.” And Barry shrugged. “It was fun while it lasted.”
Moments later, Barry was heading toward Percival’s station and found the Grail Knight there, as always. Inwardly, Barry sighed. He’d grown to like Percival in the time that he’d been there and regretted the notion of losing his company. He was in so many ways an admirable individual. There weren’t enough of his type around.
“Percival,” he called, “we’re shutting everything down.”
Slowly Percival turned and looked at him, puzzled. “Is this because of whatever it was that Arthur wanted to talk to you about?”
“It’s because of a number of things. What it comes down to is, we’ve made some money, we’ve had some laughs. And now it’s time to put an end to it.”
Percival stood up, uncoiling from his seat with the smoothness of a dragon. “I have to say…I don’t know the reasons for it, but I’m relieved. I was never happy with this. Never.”
“But you didn’t tell Arthur that.”
“Wasn’t my place.” Percival shrugged. “He’s my king. I’m his knight. That’s just the way it goes.”
“Well, I guess that’s simply a divide that we’re going to have to agree to disagree on. Go get the Grail out of the machinery, then go meet up with Arthur at the main entrance. I’ll have cars waiting there for you; he’ll explain what’s what.” Barry stuck out his hand. “Godspeed, Percival.”
“You too, Barry Seltzer…”
Percival reached out to shake Barry’s extended hand, and at that moment, something punched through Percival’s chest.
He looked down in utter confusion and saw that there was a wooden staff sticking into him…no.
No. Not a staff.
A spear.
He staggered and saw that the spear went down the sleeve of Barry’s extended right arm. It had snapped out of his sleeve like a spring-loaded magician’s cane, had driven through Percival’s torso as easily as a hot poker through tissue paper, and had come out the other side.
Barry’s expression was cold and distant, completely unlike the pleasant demeanor that he now set aside like a useless mask. When he spoke again, his voice sounded different, tinted with an accent that sounded vaguely Austrian.
“The name,” he said softly, “is not ‘Barry Seltzer.’ It’s ‘Paracelsus.’”
Percival gasped, tried to pull away. His hand reflexively went for his sword, but he had none. He hadn’t been going around armed. He did, however, have a knife in his boot, and he tried to reach down for it.
He didn’t come close.
Paracelsus twisted the Spear of Destiny, and Percival staggered as blinding heat started to radiate from him. He was on fire, and the only thing that prevented him from going up in flames was the power of the Grail that had run strong in his blood for centuries. But the power of the Spear of Destiny was vicious, and Percival—who had been determined not to scream, not to give his newfound enemy the satisfaction—screamed now. He gripped the Spear, gritted his teeth as his lips began to burn away, and fixed a look of utter hatred upon the man holding the Spear.
“I really do regret this, sir knight. I truly have enjoyed our chats,” said Paracelsus.
And then, to the obvious shock of Paracelsus, Percival yanked with a degree of strength that would have seemed impossible, and tore the spear out of his chest. Blood flew everywhere and Percival collapsed with a gaping wound in his chest, but he was still grasping the weapon.
Paracelsus pulled as hard as he could. Had he been up against an uninjured Percival, he wouldn’t have had a prayer. But the Grail Knight had used the last of his great strength, and Paracelsus yanked the spear out of his grasp even as Percival hit the floor and lay there in a spreading pool of blood.
The few employees who were a witness to the battle simply stood there, blank-faced. From across the room, Sal came running up, his red hair blazing brighter than ever. “Problem?” asked Sal.
“It’s been attended to,” Paracelsus replied. He crossed quickly to the cradle in which the Grail was sitting, ripped open the glass door that gave access to the relic, and pulled it out. He smiled as he gripped the Grail firmly. “It’s almost ready. I can sense it. One more person, I would think…and I know the perfect recipient, down in our nation’s capital, for—”
“What the bloody hell—!”
Paracelsus spun just in time to see, at the far end of the room, Arthur and Gwen. There was utter shock on Arthur’s face as he saw Percival spilling blood and organs out of his body. He saw Paracelsus standing there with the Spear in one hand and the cup of Christ in the other.
That was all he needed.
“Bastaaard!” howled Arthur, and Excalibur was in his hand, glowing and angry. He started to charge.
“Sal,” Paracelsus said as casually as if he were asking for a cigarette, “torch the place, would you?” He pointed at Arthur. “Start with him.”
Sal nodded as Paracelsus, the picture of calm, turned his back on the oncoming king and headed for the far door. Sal stepped directly into Arthur’s path, and Arthur stopped in his tracks, stunned, as Sal’s head erupted into flame. His body followed suit a second later, and Sal rose into the air, his form changing as he did so. He became elongated, lizardlike, and a corona of fire danced around him. Arthur brought up an arm, shielding his eyes. Gwen had been trying to get to the prostrate form of Percival, but she was likewise driven back by the heat.
“A salamander!” Arthur cried out.
The fire elemental let out a triumphant hiss and threw wide its arms. Fire lanced out in all directions, enveloping the factory. Employees—minions of Barry Seltzer, presumably—scattered out of there as fast as they could. Having dropped its human guise, it didn’t seem remotely interested in trading words with Arthur. Instead it unleashed its elemental fury in all directions.
Arthur charged forward as Gwen screamed a warning, and the salamander unleashed a blast of flame—not at Arthur—but at Gwen. The king realized what the creature was doing the second before it did so, and he leapt in front of Gwen a split instant before the flame got there. He brought up Excalibur in a defensive position, certain that it was going to be the last thing he ever did, and as he did it he muttered something that he himself did not fully understand.
To the shock of not only the salamander but of Arthur himself, the flame split around the sword on either side, as if the great blade was cleaving it in half. The ramp ways on either side ignited, but Arthur, Gwen, and what was left of Percival were all unharmed.
The salamander tried again, this time bringing its hands together and letting loose a fireball that could have been spat out by the sun. Yet again Excalibur barred the way, and yet again the flame did not hit its desired target.
Growling in fury, Arthur advanced on the salamander, and the creature backed up, suddenly daunted by the gleaming blade. It didn’t take the time for large fireballs this time, instead throwing several smaller ones as fast as it could. Arthur batted them aside with the flat of his blade, continuing to advance, and suddenly Gwen’s cried out, “Arthur! We need to get out of here!”
He glanced behind him and saw that Gwen was struggling mightily to haul Percival out. Then smoke began to rise, the suffocating heat getting to him. He remembered the last time he’d been in an inferno; it had taken the
timely arrival of New York’s Bravest to hose him down and get him through it safely. No such arrival seemed likely now. Gwen was coughing violently. Her lungs would likely collapse if she was in the place much longer, and God only knew what was going to happen with Percival.
Arthur looked back at his foe and saw that the salamander was gone. Scarpered off, the cowardly monster had. Knowing that he was running out of time, Arthur quickly sheathed Excalibur and ran back to Gwen and Percival. He scooped up the fallen knight in his arms and only at that point did he see the horrific wound that Percival had suffered.
He glanced around desperately, but the entire place was alive with flame. It was hitting the treated water from the Grail and all of it was quickly evaporating in clouds of hissing steam rather than slowing down the spread of the fire at all. Arthur let out a choked sob even as he staggered forward, cradling Percival in his arms. Gwen followed directly behind. Overhead there was the cracking of roof supports. Arthur wanted to shout for Gwen to hurry, but he was afraid to draw a breath and inhale smoke. Besides, it wasn’t necessary: Gwen couldn’t have been moving faster if hellhounds were barking at her heels.
The specifics of the next confusing minutes were a blur to Arthur as flames seemed to spring up in their path wherever they went. Arthur saw the automatic sprinkler heads set into the ceiling, but they weren’t raining down water; Seltzer had undoubtedly disabled the system.
It was Gwen who took the lead. “This way!” she called out, as they staggered into corridors filling rapidly with smoke. He didn’t know how she knew, and chalked it off to the fact that women always seemed to know where they were going. They headed down a hallway, and suddenly the doorway in front of them blew open, a sheet of flame blocking their way.
There was a large window to their right, but it was reinforced glass, unbreakable. But not to Arthur…except he was carrying Percival. “The sword! Grab Excalibur!” shouted Arthur, indicating the window with his head.
