The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  As Arthur eyed the clock, Techforce Ten began the countdown. One minute to deadline . . . fifty-nine seconds . . . fifty-eight.. fifty-seven . . .

  ‘Three more women entering the café,’ reported Lancelot, his voice agitated. ‘Two carrying babies . . . ’

  Forty-five . . . forty-four . . . forty-three . . .

  Lancelot again. ‘Two more men entering café, one with a small child…What do I do?’

  Arthur stared straight ahead. Twenty-six . . . twenty-five . . . twenty-four . . .

  ‘Your orders, sir!’ cried Lancelot.

  Fifteen . . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . . twelve . . . ’

  Five women, two men, one child, two babies . . . ten innocents. Collateral damage . . . could it ever be justified? If he slaughtered innocent women and children, was he any better than the terrorists he was fighting? Had his face become the monster’s face?

  Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .

  The scar on his face burned.

  ‘For God’s sake, nuncle!’ Agravaine’s cry brought him back to his senses.

  ‘Elimat,’ said Arthur.

  Seconds from the deadline, the Internet café and its occupants disappeared for ever.

  Had the aircraft reached its target? For a long time the speakers were silent. And then, from Techforce: Aircraft crashed into canyon wall. Huge explosion.

  Arthur’s voice was shaking. ‘Is the dam intact?’ Agravaine relayed the question.

  From Techforce came the answer: Dam intact.

  It had been a great victory, and it dealt a mortal blow to one of the most dangerous terror groups ever to threaten the world. The Sword that appeared in the sky the following day confirmed what most people already suspected – that it was Arthur who, yet again, had come to the planet’s rescue. No one deluded themselves that the war against terrorism was won. One thing was certain, though; the world was a safer place than it had been before.

  Arthur, a hero across the globe, and also in Camelot, willed himself to experience the exhilaration of the moment. Yet even that moment was tainted by the knowledge that innocent people had died, deaths for which he took responsibility. In vain did Leo Grant try to persuade him that fate had given him no option. ‘You are a man of conscience, Arthur, and for that I have always respected you. But nothing, not even conscience, can be allowed to stop you doing what you have to do. Yes, ten innocent people died, but who knows how many lives you may have saved?’

  In the weeks that followed, three more terrorists, all self- confessed members of The Hand of God, were tried; one in France, one in Spain, one in Greece. All three were found guilty of terrorist activities and sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. The democratic world welcomed the harsh sentences. Yet within six months all three had “escaped” from prison. Not one of them was ever recaptured. It was rumoured, though never proved, that some kind of deal had been made with an Islamist government.

  Arthur felt betrayed. When the terrorists had licked their wounds, who could say that history would not repeat itself? Was the struggle all for nothing? He needed Merlin, now more than ever.

  Fifty Three

  Unable to make contact with Merlin, and desperate to talk to him, Arthur flew to Somerset, landing his Scuttle in a field close to Merlin’s cottage. Approaching it on foot, everything seemed normal, lawns lush, flower beds pampered, the gravel path leading to the front door immaculately raked. Parked outside was a big four-wheel drive.

  Opening the door Nimue showed no surprise; it was almost as if she were expecting him. She was dressed simply; jeans and a white blouse, her dark hair piled high on her head. He had forgotten how beautiful she was.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said, as she stood aside to let him in.

  ‘You are not disturbing me.’

  Standing in the kitchen, Arthur was overwhelmed with childhood memories. There in the corner of the room was the crib Merlin had laid him in when Uther handed him over for adoption, a story Merlin always delighted in telling. There was Robbie’s basket, where on a winter’s evening, Merlin’s beloved labrador would doze in front of the fire, snoring gently, opening a sleepy eye now and then to reassure himself that Merlin was still there, and to the left of the fireplace, the Windsor chair Arthur used to sit in when he was a lad, listening enthralled to the Magus talking about everything in the world and out of it.

  ‘Is Merlin in?’

  ‘No.’ She was looking everywhere but at him. ‘Where is he?’

  A shrug. ‘I don’t know. I got up one morning and he was gone.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  Her eyes were wary. ‘A few days ago.’

  ‘May I look in his computer? There might be a clue.’ ‘Of course.’

  Merlin’s computer had been wiped clean. There was nothing on the hard drive, not even an address.

  ‘Did you find what you wanted?’ she asked, as he came down the stairs.

  ‘No.’

  She was tense, though still very much in control of herself. ‘I’ll be off home,’ she said.

  Where was home, he wondered. No point in asking; she would certainly avoid the question, or lie.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We’d been quarrelling,’ she said, looking away. ‘He walked out, that’s all. Said he never wanted to see me again.’ She fiddled with the strap of a soft bag lying on the table. ‘He kept on about losing his powers. I think he blamed me for that.’ She opened the front door, the bag over her shoulder. ‘My stuff’s in the car,’ she said. ‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’

  ‘Tell me the truth, Nimue. What really happened?’

  She stood in the doorway with her back to him. ‘I’m afraid

  . . . ’ she muttered. ‘Of what?’

  ‘I’m afraid he may have killed himself,’ she said, and closed the door quietly behind her. He heard the car start up and drive off. The sound of the engine faded to nothing. It made no sense. Merlin would never kill himself.

  He went upstairs again, drifting aimlessly into a bedroom, a bathroom, a small library/sitting room – looking for anything that might offer a clue to Merlin’s mysterious disappearance. Finding nothing, he returned to his office, checked the computer again – empty, suspiciously empty – and scoured every drawer and shelf for any software lying about. Nothing. No ornaments, not even a photo – no, wait a minute, there was one – a framed photo of Arthur on a beach, one he did not recall having seen before. And in the bottom left-hand corner an inscription in Merlin’s handwriting: From Merlin to Arthur. Odd. Merlin was no photographer; he could not remember him ever owning a camera. There was that time on the beach years ago when Nimue had summoned him, and he had pretended to take a picture of Arthur. But he hadn’t taken one, had he? There was no camera in his hand. Carefully, Arthur removed the photograph from its frame and examined it closely. The image was computer generated, and there was something odd about the feel of it, it didn’t flex like photographic paper. Making an incision in the top edge, he turned the photo upside down and shook it. There, in the palm of his hand, was a paper thin disc.

  In seconds, Merlin’s face was on the computer screen, and the Magus was talking to him.

  Remember now? The photograph on the beach, the photo I never took? A beam of triumph. I knew you’d find it.

  Arthur’s heart jumped in his chest, it was all so typically Merlin.

  To prepare Camelot for you, Art, I needed a vast fortune. Problem was, I didn’t have a bean to my name. I took various jobs involving cutting-edge science until finally I became the British Government’s number one scientist and inventor of weapons and technology. Perfect cover for me. That was when I started hacking into the bank accounts of the wealthiest and most powerful drug baron in the world. Dionysus, he called himself. I never discovered his real name.

  Over a relatively short period of time I relieved him of nearly a hundred billion dollars. As you can imagine Dionysus very soon discovered that his hoard of money was rapidly depleting, and tried to protect h
imself by shifting it round the world. But every time he did, he left a trail, and it wasn’t long before I had traced the new accounts. With this money, and with the help of a few trusted men and women who shared my concern about where the world was heading, I set about experimenting with weapons and technology. When I bought the island of Camelot, I had already developed a prototype of Excalibur, the ultimate weapon and power source, and also of Eclipse and Kraken, Scuttles and Nimbles. Oh, I had twinges of conscience about using dirty money, but I consoled myself – and still do – with the thought that a bad thing can be used for a good purpose.

  Unfortunately even Merlin makes mistakes. One day when I was tired, I left a ‘calling card’, a code that in the hands of a cyber expert would give away my location. I realised almost immediately what I had done and tried to cover my tracks. Too late. A few weeks later Nimue appeared. I suspected her from the start, of course. But she was bright, very bright, and a challenge to my intellect. She was also very beautiful. Despite myself, I fell in love with her, an experience entirely new to me and incredibly exciting. One day, I knew, she would rob me of my powers, one day she would be my nemesis. But because I loved her, I was unable to resist her. Oh, I know what you are thinking, Arthur. You warned me about Nimue. But then I warned you about Guinevere. And we were both helpless, weren’t we?

  If only Merlin were here in the flesh instead of a talking head on a computer screen. If only Virgil were there, sitting on Arthur’s shoulder, hoo-hooing a greeting, nibbling his ear lobe. If only . . . He felt a stab of fear in his stomach, a premonition of disaster.

  I was so in love, Art, that I agreed to reveal my secrets to her. She told me she loved me, and wanted to be part of my life for ever. To do that, she said, she needed to share my power.

  And I believed her. I believed she had renounced the world she came from, and I believed she loved me. I convinced myself that she would never betray me. It was folly, of course, and I was deluding myself. I shut my eyes, Arthur, not wanting to see what was so obviously there. But then, Art, you of all people will understand how we allow ourselves to be betrayed by the ones we love most.

  Merlin’s words hit home, as no doubt they were intended to.

  At the same time, he had never felt closer to the Magus.

  Soon, she was almost as powerful as I was, and it was too late to do anything about it, even if I had wanted to, which I didn’t. But believe me, Arthur, I never revealed the secrets of Camelot. She tried to make me but she never succeeded. The other day I caught her at her computer talking to Dionysus, and to my horror, I learned he was her father. I believe that one day he will come for me and try to extract the secret of Excalibur. He will not succeed, I promise you. And in return, you must promise me that nothing – nothing, Arthur – will divert you from your great mission. Goodbye, my dear friend. I love you.

  His heart beating fast, he played the disc a second and a third time, hoping that Merlin had left some clue to whatever had happened to him. But he had not. His disappearance remained a mystery. Had he run away and hidden? Or had Dionysus or his men taken him away? Even more of a mystery; why had he done nothing to protect himself, when surely he could have? How could he have allowed his love for Nimue to blind him? How could wise Merlin have been so stupid?

  Waiting until nightfall, he flew to Tintagel, where, as a teenager, he had pulled the Sword from the Stone. Something told him that the secret of Merlin’s disappearance lay there.

  Landing the Scuttle by the ruins of the ancient castle, he walked across the headland heights to the sculpture of The Sword in the Stone. It was a clear, bright night. The stars and the crescent moon softened the harsh landscape. Far below, was the sea, the crests of the Atlantic waves flecked with silver. Sitting on the plinth of the sculpture, he dreamed the years away, remembering how he had angered Keir and astonished Hector by pulling the Sword from the Stone. That had changed everything. Until that fateful day he had managed to convince himself that he was a boy like other boys. What happened then compelled him to acknowledge that he was different, that indeed, as Merlin told him, he had a special destiny. It was a heavy burden he had shouldered, a burden that had grown heavier with the years.

  On the dark side of the headland, he made his way down the steep path that led to the beach and the entrance to Merlin’s cave. It was not there. Was his memory playing tricks? Was Merlin? He walked up and down the beach in case he had mistaken the spot. No, there was no other entrance. He walked back again. This was where it used to be and should be still. Then he realised what had happened. The entrance to the cave was blocked by a huge boulder. Drawing his portable he fired at the boulder, Dematting it, and the entrance to Merlin’s cave was revealed.

  In the darkness he advanced cautiously. Every few seconds the incoming sea launched itself against the cave’s outer walls, bursting through fissures and gullies in the rock, and streaming out again as the tide retreated. Softly he called, ‘Merlin!’ There was no response, only the echoes of his voice . . . Merlin!

  Merlin! An eerie, melancholy sound. Again he called, and again the echoes rebounded . . . Merlin! Merlin! as though they were mocking him.

  Using his miniature power pack, he lit the cave. In the far corner, under an overhang of rock, lay Merlin’s naked body, arms folded across his chest. Arthur experienced pain and shock such as he had never known before. Falling to his knees, he reached out and touched Merlin’s face. The skin was translucent, the flesh cold and hard. Blinking away his tears, he saw to his horror that the bones of Merlin’s feet and hands had been broken, finger and toe nails torn out. Laying his head on the Magus’s chest he wept. ‘Merlin, what have they done to you?’

  After a minute or two he sat up, wiped his tear-stained face with his sleeve and looked again at the face of the Magus. It was astonishing. Merlin had been tortured, yet his magical green eyes were untroubled, their expression serene. What was it he had said in his last message? I shut my eyes, Arthur, not wanting to see what was so obviously there. No, that wasn’t true. Merlin’s eyes were always open, he had known exactly what was happening to him, and he was not afraid. Tenderly he closed the lids.

  Where to bury him? Where to lay him to rest? Should he not take him back to Camelot, his creation, and bury him there with all the honour and love that his noble heart and mind deserved? It would be as much for his own sake as for Merlin’s. For if he did not see Merlin buried, flesh and blood and bone, he would never believe that the Magus had died. For a few more minutes he remained in the cave debating the question before making up his mind. This was Merlin’s cave. Some men said that this was where he was born. Certainly it was where he had died. Perhaps this was where he would one day rise up and be himself again.

  After recording some images of Merlin’s body, he switched off the power pack and stood for a minute or two in the darkness. The evidence of his senses told him that Merlin was dead, and yet he could have sworn that the Magus was watching him with those great green orbs of his. Merlin had taught him to believe in God, not the exclusive God men worshipped in church or synagogue or mosque, but the God who was in all things, in the stars, in the sun and the moon, in the wind and the rain, in trees and rivers, lakes and mountains, in birds and animals – in all His creations. That God would never let Merlin die. But then his spirits, momentarily revived, sank again. He was deceiving himself. Merlin was dead. He would never see him again.

  ‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said. Outside the cave he drew his portable and Rematted the boulder, sealing the entrance behind him.

  Climbing, without knowing or caring where his legs were taking him, he staggered onto the summit of the headland, collapsed on the grass by The Sword in the Stone, and fell into a dreamless sleep. All that night he slept, waking with the dawn. When he opened his eyes the rising sun was turning the sky and ocean red. For a few seconds he forgot where he was, then with a sharp pang of despair he remembered. Down there was Merlin’s cave where Merlin’s tortured body lay. Nothing would ever be the same again
.

  Now, for the first time in his life, he was truly angry. Not for a single moment would he rest until he found Merlin’s killers and punished them. In his mind the Magus’s broken body was a symbol of the millions of addicted men, women and children whose lives had been ruined by drugs. There would be a reckoning for all those lost souls, those deranged minds and broken bodies, a reckoning for those who died, and for those who lived in torment.

  And a reckoning for Merlin too.

  Fifty Four

  Mainline

  The four double doors clanged shut, the Guardian robots announced Doors shut and secured, and the Round Table was in session.

  Members observed without comment that in front of Arthur lay the ceremonial sword, Excalibur. Already rumours had raced across the island, and the solemn faces around the table confirmed what everyone knew: this was the most important meeting in the history of the Round Table.

  On four big wall screens Merlin’s final message was projected alongside images of his tortured body lying in the cave at Tintagel. In the shocked silence, Arthur spoke.

  ‘I have summoned you so that we can agree a course of action. My proposal is that we launch an attack not just on Dionysus and his drug empire, but on all major drug producers, transporters and dealers, whose activities threaten this, and all future generations. Our objective will be to wipe out the illegal drug trade – crops, production and distribution centres, the drug producers themselves, their weapons, their militias and major transportation facilities on land, sea and in the air. If we succeed, and I believe we shall, the message will go out to the world that drug dealing will no longer be tolerated. The code name for the party will be Mainline.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath in the Great Hall. No one had been expecting anything quite as uncompromising as this, especially not from Arthur, still considered a dove by many.

  Lancelot raised a hand. ‘What you propose, sir, is a huge operation, our biggest yet. In my opinion we cannot afford half-measures. To have any chance of success, we need to commit all our resources.’