Area 51: Legend

by Robert Doherty

  The creature spoke first, in its native language. “Are you behind what is happening with the Grail and Master Key?”

  The female of the pair spoke for them. “No. That was the humans. Artad has dispatched his Shadow to recover both.”

  “As Aspasia’s Shadow has also been dispatched to do the same,” the Airlia said. “However, neither seem to have accomplished that task yet.”

  “Why are you here?” the woman asked.

  “To enforce the Atlantis Truce,” the Airlia replied. “You tried once to break that truce by building an array on this site.”

  The woman considered the Airlia for several moments, processing what it had just said. “You do not trust your Shadow, do you?”

  “Does Artad trust his Shadow?”

  “Artad’s Shadow is imprinted,” the One Who Waits replied.

  The Airlia considered this. “And your tasking?”

  “The same as yours. To restore the truce.”

  Unseen by either the Airlia or the Ones Who Wait, there was a third party creeping closer to the lake, one that had watched the Airlia ever since he exited the tube.

  “We can work together then to—” the Airlia began but paused, seeing both Ones Who Wait’s eyes grew wide in alarm, as they looked past it. The Airlia spun about, spear-point glinting in the sun and the animal was caught on the tip, spitted, but still it came on, claws flailing as the spear slid through its body. With one dying swipe it laid open the side of the alien’s chest.

  “The key.” The male spoke for the first time, pointing with his spear at the scepter tucked into the Airlia’s belt as it collapsed to the ground.

  The female considered this for a moment. Access to the Hall of Records lay within their reach. While the Grail and Excalibur were out in the world, the former was useless without the stones—and they were in the Hall. If they took the key, then recovered the stones—she stopped that train of thought. They were the Ones Who Wait. They lived to serve the interests of Artad and wait for the day when he returned. And when he did they would be rewarded.

  She went over to the Airlia and looked closely at his wounds. His red cat-eyes stared up at her. There was another moment of hesitation, then she pressed down on his wound, slowing the bleeding.

  ENGLAND

  Gawain drew the sharpening stone along the sword, matching the grain of the metal. The edge was already razor sharp but the routine soothed him. He kept his eyes fixed on Arthur’s tent. The king was inside with Merlin and several other knights, planning their strategy for the next day. Scouts had returned, reporting that Mordred’s army was drawn up to the south and east, on the other side of a foul swamp called Camlann.

  A head popped out of the tent. Percival. The most loyal of Arthur’s knights and the most blind as to reality. “Gawain.”

  “Yes?”

  “The king desires your advice.”

  Gawain walked over to the tent and entered. He could feel Merlin’s eyes upon him. “My lord,” he said to Arthur.

  “What would you recommend for the battle plan?” Arthur asked without any preamble.

  Gawain glanced at the other knights. They had no clue who Arthur was. Gawain also realized that, given the imprinting on Arthur, that Artad must be a good leader, one who was willing to consult his subordinates before battle.

  “You have probably been advised to advance around the swamp, anchoring one flank on it,” Gawain said.

  Arthur nodded, his cold blue eyes on Gawain, waiting.

  “I recommend something different. I say we approach the enemy’s camp through the swamp. Mordred has gathered many knights from across the channel—heavily armored, more so than we are. The swamp will negate their advantage.”

  Arthur stared at Gawain for several moments, and then nodded. “That is what we will do.”

  Gawain had not added his real reason for choosing the swamp. The terrain would break up the forces on both sides and in the confusion he hoped to be able to finish off not only Mordred but Arthur too. And, most importantly, Merlin’s hidden lair lay somewhere inside the swamp.

  The group broke up for the evening and Gawain followed Merlin out of the tent.

  He grabbed the sorcerer’s arm. “There will be much death tomorrow. Every single one rests on your shoulders.”

  Merlin faced him with haunted eyes. “I did not know.”

  “You know now. Where is the Grail?”

  “Hidden in cave not far from here.”

  “You need to recover it this evening.”

  “And then?

  “We will know the next step when we know how the battle turns.”

  Mordred did not consult anyone about his battle plans. He had shed more blood on this planet than any creature that walked it. He had little respect for human generals; and for Artad’s Shadow, who called himself King Arthur, he had only disdain. He could just imagine things in his opponent’s camp if the Shadow held true to the form of the imprinting. Talking, asking opinions about strategy. Mordred shook his head. He’d—well, not he, but Aspasia—had seen Artad do the same when they had served together.

  He lifted a finger and one of his Guides came forward, going to one knee, waiting for orders.

  “Take three of your kind with you,” Mordred ordered. “Go near the camp of the enemy. Watch for the one called Merlin. Follow him wherever he goes.”

  The Guide did not need to acknowledge the order verbally. Obedience was implicit.

  Merlin paused, sensing the presence of others in the swamp. A half dozen figures loomed out of the blackness, garbed in dark robes. He drew his dagger, knowing as he did so that the gesture was futile against such numbers. The individual in the lead of the group lifted up an empty hand, palm out first, then turning it so that Merlin could see the ring that adorned one finger.

  “Watchers,” Merlin breathed with relief.

  The man nodded. “We are here to help you. We were summoned.”

  “Come with me.”

  The group headed deeper into the swamp, unaware that they were being followed.

  The false dawn that precedes the real one tinged the sky. Gawain stared across the field toward the dark trees that marked the edge of the swamp. The air was full of the sound of men in armor moving into position. A slight breeze came from the direction of the swamp, bringing with it the odor of decay.

  Gawain shivered.

  XX

  A.D. 529: ENGLAND

  Merlin covered the dead Watcher’s face with a piece of cloth, not able to bear the grimace of pain frozen on it and the eyes that seemed to be accusing the sorcerer. He looked up at the remaining Watchers, half of them wounded in the ambush.

  The Grail had been taken by the attackers. Mordred’s men.

  He had failed.

  True dawn came with the sun. Gawain made sure he was close to Arthur as the king’s forces moved into the swamp. The terrain was not practical for deployment on horses, so they were left at the edge. Water rose up to Gawain’s midcalf as they advanced. As he had predicted, the swamp made moving as a single unit impossible. The king’s army was broken into smaller and smaller segments the further they went into the dense vegetation. Visibility was limited to ten or fifteen meters.

  The sound of metal on metal echoed through the swamp from the right. Gawain drew his sword and kept his eye on the king as they continued to move forward toward the enemy.

  Morgana saw the Guides arrive at Mordred’s tent with an object covered in a white wrap and she knew immediately what it was—there was no mistaking the outline under the cloth. Gawain was supposed to have retrieved the Grail from Merlin—obviously that plan had failed.

  Two Guides remained on guard at the entrance to the tent as Mordred exited. There was already the sound of battle coming out of the swamp—Mordred had sent a skirmish line into it just before dawn.

  Morgana decided to follow Mordred, since she didn’t expect the Grail to be moved anytime soon. She headed west and was soon swallowed up in the dense vegetation.


  Gawain ducked under the swinging ax and drove the point of his sword into the man’s stomach with such force that the man was lifted off his feet for a moment. Twisting the handle, Gawain finished gutting the man, and then pulled the sword out, letting the unarmored peasant collapse to the ground.

  So far all they had encountered were these peasants, who had obviously been given weapons and sent forward to die. A crude but effective way to further disrupt the advance of Arthur’s army. A pair of knights came lumbering toward Gawain, blue scarves tied around their right upper arms, indicating they were Mordred’s men.

  With his shield, Gawain parried the strike from the man on the left and with his sword blocked the thrust from the one on the right. The force of the simultaneous blows staggered Gawain back a step, water splashing around his legs. He made an instant decision and charged, shield out, toward the man on the left, bowling him over, then spinning toward the other, sword blocking the blow that came toward him. With one foot on the chest of the man he had knocked over, pinninghim down in combination with the heavy armor, Gawain battled the second knight as the first one slowly drowned.

  Gawain easily blocked the knight’s attack and battered the man with blows on his helmet until one blow knocked him unconscious. The second knight toppled over into the shallow water, to drown alongside the first.

  Gawain looked up and realized that he had lost contact with Arthur during the engagement. He could hear the sound of heavy fighting all around. Cursing, Gawain splashed forward, in the direction he had last seen Arthur heading.

  The Ones Who Wait carried the wounded Airlia back into the lake, toward the underwater entrance to their lair. While the top part of the base had been destroyed so many years ago when the Talons took out the array, the bottom half had remained intact. As water filled the center of the crater the survivors built a lock into a severed tunnel that had led to the top of the mountain. It was a most effective way to keep the entrance to their base concealed. They dived down with the Airlia, entered the lock, shut the hatch behind them, waited for the water to be pumped out, and then opened the hatch at their feet.

  Once they were inside they made their way north along a cross corridor, carrying the Airlia with them. Hidden in a chamber carved out in the rim of the cavern was a bouncer— a craft able to tap into and magnify the Earth’s magnetic field as a source of propulsion. The Ones Who Wait and the Airlia got inside the craft and a camouflaged door slid open.

  The bouncer lifted up and, once clear of the hangar, headed to the north.

  Excalibur cut through armor as if it were made of paper. Arthur plowed into Mordred’s army, leaving a wake of corpses behind him. The chosen knights of the Round Table strove to keep up with him, but armed with lesser swords, they had a much more difficult time of it.

  Arthur’s rapid advance came to an abrupt halt, however, when he reached Mordred, who was also armed with an Airlia sword, although it was not a key. Alien metal went against alien metal, wielded by human hands, guided by minds that were imprinted with alien personalities and thoughts. The two were well matched and blow after blow was exchanged with little damage. Occasionally a human knight would attempt to enter the fray, but by unspoken agreement, the two Shadows would cut the human down, regardless of which side he was from, and then go back to the personal combat. Slowly a mound of bodies grew around the two combatants.

  This was the scene that Gawain came across when he finally caught up with the king. He approached slowly, looking for an opening. As he did so, Arthur stumbled over a submerged root and Mordred used the opportunity to strike hard with the point of his sword, punching through Arthur’s armor and grievously wounding him.

  Arthur went down to his knees and Mordred pulled his sword back, preparing to render a mighty swing and sever the king’s head from his body. The blow never connected as Arthur jabbed the point of his sword into Mordred’s leg, cutting in deep, severing the artery. Mordred cursed and staggered, then drew back his sword once more to decapitate the king. This blow also didn’t connect, as Gawain’s sword deflected Mordred’s in midstrike.

  Mordred shifted his attack from the wounded king to Gawain. Despite all his skill, Gawain was no match for the Shadow and the superior sword the other carried, even though Mordred was seriously wounded. Gawain was forced to give ground, step by step. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Percival and several other knights approaching the king.

  Mordred’s blade punctured Gawain’s armor and seared into his flesh, just below the left part of his rib cage. Gasping in pain, Gawain desperately tried to mount a counteroffensive, attempting blow after blow at his enemy. It ended when Mordred put all his force behind a level strike that sliced through Gawain’s sword and smashed into his chest, severing the armor, and cutting deep into the vital organs.

  Gawain remained still, caught on the blade for a couple of seconds, then Mordred jerked the blade back and Gawain fell forward into the swamp, splashing bloody and dirty water onto his opponent.

  Mordred turned back toward Arthur and was surprised to see the knights carrying their king—and Excalibur—away. As he started to give chase, a hand holding a black dagger appeared out of the black water and slammed the slim blade into Mordred’s thigh. Mordred howled with pain, and the leg buckled.

  Gawain stabbed again and again as his life blood poured out of the wound in his chest. His hand drew back once more, then paused and flopped lifeless in the water.

  EPILOGUE

  A.D. 529: ENGLAND

  Gawain was dead, his ka destroyed. Mordred had been finished off by Morgana and she had passed the Grail to Merlin.

  Atop Avalon, thick clouds were gathering over the island, lightning flickering, followed seconds later by thunder. At the very top of the tor, there was now a stone abbey, with one tall tower. Next to the abbey, a dozen men in armor were gathered round their leader who lay next to the tower’s east wall.

  Arthur was dying, of that there was no doubt among the few surviving men. The wounds were too deep, the loss of blood too great. Despite the king’s weakened state, his right hand still firmly held the pommel of his sword Excalibur. Arthur lay on his back, his armor dented and battered. His eyes, bright blue, stared up at the dark heavens.

  Several of the knights were looking to the east, in the direction of Camlann. Arthur’s knights had drawn him back from the front lines, as Mordred’s had also done with their own leader. Again and again, the armies charged until the battlefield was strewn with the dead and dying. Few on either side were still alive when they left. War-hardened though they were, none of the knights had ever seen such bloodlust descend on both sides in a battle, not even when they had fought the crazed Scotsmen of the north. But that day noquarter had been given, wounded had been slain where they lay, unarmored auxiliaries hacked to pieces, suited knights pounded to death, blades slammed through visors of helpless knights lying on their backs or under the armpit where they could get through the armor.

  None on the tor knew who had won or if the battle was even over yet. Shortly after the king had been seriously wounded by Mordred, these men, the core of the Round Table, had placed Arthur on a pallet and dragged him away while the battle still raged. No courier had since come with word of victory or defeat.

  They felt the dark, rolling clouds overhead threatening a vicious storm to be a portent even though Merlin was not there to read the signs. Where the sorcerer had gone the day before the battle was a mystery and there were many who cursed his name. Regardless, they knew the Age of Camelot was done and the darkness of barbarism and ignorance would descend once more on England.

  The knights turned in surprise as the thick wooden door in the side of the abbey creaked opened. They had pounded on the door without success when they’d first arrived by boat thirty minutes earlier. In the now open doorway, a man was framed by light from behind. Robed in black, the man’s hands were empty of weapons, his face etched with age, his hair silver. He was breathing hard, as if he had come a long way. Despite his nonthreaten
ing appearance the knights stepped aside as he gestured for them to part and allowed him access to the king, all except the knight closest to Arthur.

  “Are you the Fisher-King?” Percival asked as the man came close. He was always the boldest in strange situations or when the king was threatened. Percival’s armor was battered and blood seeped from under his left arm, where a dagger had struck. His right hand gripped his sword, ready to defend Arthur, to atone for not taking the blow that had felled the king. He was a stout man, not tall, but broad of shoulders, dark hair plastered to his head with sweat, a thin red line along one cheek, where a blade had struck a glancing blow.

  The stranger paused. “No, I am not a king.”

  “Are you a monk?” Percival persisted, leery of allowing a stranger next to the king.

  “You may call me that.”

  Percival looked over the man’s cloak, noted the trim on the ends of the sleeves, the chain around his neck. “You dress like Merlin. Are you one of the priests of the old religion, the tree worshippers? A sorcerer of the dark arts?”

  The man paused. “My line has been here on what you call Avalon since the dawn of time. But we worship no Gods and practice no sorcery.”

  “You’re a Druid?” Percival persisted. “It is said the Druids have been on this island forever. That they sing the eternal song here, but we found no one when we arrived.”

  “There is no time for your questions.” The man knelt, placing his wrinkled hands over the king’s bloodstained ones.

  “Can you heal him?” Percival was now the only one close, the others near the edge of the tor, attention split between what was happening to their king and the water to the east, from which news of victory or the promise of death in defeat would come. They had no doubt that if Mordred’s side won, there would be no mercy.

  “The healers—such as they are—will arrive shortly, I believe,” the monk said.