by C. J. Busby
Contents
Title Page
A Lesson with Merlin
Plans and Plots
Casting the Swordspell
Max is Stuck
King Arthur is Warned
A Fight to the Death
The Quest to Find the King
Fights and Magic
King Vortigern the Victorious
The Lady’s Island
The Battle for the Kingdom Begins
The Wardstone
A Well-Deserved Feast
The Festival of Chivalry
About the author
Copyright
A Lesson with Merlin
Max Pendragon was standing quite still, pinned into the corner of a plainly furnished chamber in Castle Camelot by a large, fire-breathing hell hound. Max could feel the hot breath of the dog scorching his knees, and could see the saliva dripping from its fangs onto the wide oak floorboards. It tensed its muscles, back legs ready to spring, preparing to launch itself towards him and tear his throat out.
Max gulped. Slowly, carefully, he stretched out his hand towards the hound.
“Begone!” he croaked, in what was meant to be a commanding voice but failed utterly. The hell hound bared its teeth and looked like it was laughing. Then it sprang.
Max panicked, and flung every spell he could think of at the beast, with a few random bits of raw magic thrown in for good measure. The hound turned purple, sprouted chicken wings, choked on the sudden growth of hair from its fangs, looked startled, then vanished with a loud POP!
“Well done, Max, well done,” said Merlin, as he rose up from the plain wooden chair he’d been sitting in near the window. “A bit of a lack of finesse at the end there, but effective. Very effective. You’re getting much stronger.”
Max let out a deep breath, then slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. His legs didn’t feel like they could hold him up any longer.
“What – what was that thing?” he said, faintly.
“Oh, you know. Guardian spell. You activated it when you opened that little box” He gestured at a small wooden casket Max was holding. “An illusion, of course, not a real hell hound. But it would have done a fair bit of damage if you hadn’t dismissed it. Now Can you tell me who made the spell?”
Max groaned. Merlin had been trying to get him to identify spells for what felt like weeks now, and he was still rubbish at it. He could feel the presence of magic, but working out who had cast a spell just by the feel of it was a bit like trying to work out who had made the sword Merlin usually wore. To Max, it was just a sword – plain, workmanlike, sharp – it matched Merlin’s dark tunic and weather-beaten face and made him look every inch an ordinary knight. But now that Max was better at sensing the presence of magic, he wondered how he could ever have thought Merlin looked just like any other of King Arthur’s knights. Magic shone from Merlin like the fierce reflection of sunlight on water, with all the raw power of a hunting kestrel.
Max stopped short. That was it. Merlin’s magic – there was something wild about it, something that soared, that felt fierce and proud and free, like a bird. And now he realised that, he also realised something about the hell hound he’d just faced.
“It was your spell. You cast it. It felt like… like you.”
Merlin clapped his hands, and grinned.
“At last, young Pendragon! At last! Yes, that was one of my earlier spells, when I was still inclined to be a bit flashy… King Uther wanted that box kept very safe at the time. Nothing much in it now, of course – take a look.”
Max looked down at the open box he was still clutching in his left hand. It was ornately carved and lined with velvet. Inside was a plain gold ring. Max picked it up, and knew at once that it was enchanted. There was power in it, but it was not like Merlin’s. Where his was bright and pure, and somehow felt like open air, this was dark and cold and immovable, and very, very strong. Its strength was like the strength of iron, hard and unyielding. In fact, Max felt sure he’d come up against this feeling of immovable strength before. But where?
He hesitated, and then put the ring on. Immediately he felt like he’d been buried under a ton of earth. He couldn’t move a muscle, although he realised thankfully a few seconds later that he could breathe. But otherwise the cold, hard power of the spell held him completely, so that he couldn’t even speak.
Merlin looked at him sympathetically.
“Well then, Max. How about this one? Do you recognise it? Can you throw it off?”
Max tried to raise an eyebrow, or twitch the corner of his mouth ruefully to indicate that no, he really didn’t have a clue, and no, he couldn’t do anything about it, and could he please be released as he had a terrible itch on his upper arm. But it was useless, because all he did was continue to sit in the same position, looking faintly surprised.
After what seemed like an age, Merlin relented, and gestured at Max with the long brown fingers of one hand. The spell lifted, and Max sat up, relieved, and took the ring off.
“So. Did you feel the difference in that magic?” asked Merlin.
Max nodded. “But I don’t know whose it is. I have no idea.”
Merlin looked at him intently. “Do you remember trying to reverse your icespell from the castle two weeks ago?”
Max coloured. He remembered it very well. Having accidentally encased the whole of Camelot in a mountain of ice, it was not something he was going to forget in a hurry. Especially as his spell had got tangled up with one of Lady Morgana le Fay’s, meaning it had been impossible for him to reverse it. Max remembered the panic he’d felt as he’d pushed at the icespell, trying desperately to unravel it, only to meet a cold, hard wall of resistance. A wall which, now he came to think about it, had also felt very like dark, unyielding iron…
“It’s Morgana’s! The spell on the ring! It feels exactly the same… That’s why I couldn’t undo it!”
Merlin nodded, delighted, and clapped Max on the shoulder.
“Well done, Max. Well done!” he said. “It is indeed one of Morgana’s favourite immobility spells. You’ve got it at last. You are really feeling the difference in magics.”
Max felt a wave of relief. He had been wondering whether he would ever get there, and worried that Merlin might just decide he was talentless after all and give up on teaching him. But now he’d worked out what Merlin was looking for, Max realised he’d always been able to sense that shape and character to spells – he’d just never associated it with the person who made them. Now he thought about it, it made sense. His mother, Lady Griselda, made colourful, bright spells like summer flowers. Lancelot, who had helped them when they were up against Lady Morgana’s plotting in Gore, made beautiful silvery spells, intricate and ornate. And the magic he had felt in Annwn, the Otherworld, had been twisted and strange, like the shadows thrown by moonlight.
Max took a deep breath, and nodded.
“Yes. I think I’ve got it. I can see what you mean, now. But I’m not sure how it helps.”
“It’s essential,” said Merlin, sternly. “I need you to get a feel for Morgana’s magic, especially, if you’re to learn how to reverse it. And I need you to be able to reverse it if you’re to help me defeat her.”
Max swallowed. Help defeat Morgana le Fay, the most powerful sorceress in the kingdom? Just the memory of the powerful magic she’d used to send his sister Olivia to the Otherworld made him feel faint. And how could Merlin possibly need any help from him?
But before Merlin could explain any further, there was a fierce knock at the door, and almost immediately it opened. Max scrambled to his feet, and bowed. The determined-looking man who had just burst into the room was the king.
“Merlin,” he said, with a nod to Max. “We have had news. Sir Boris thinks he has f
ound the refuge of this sorceress we’ve been having so much trouble with.”
Merlin glanced at Max. They both knew who had really been behind all the trouble the king spoke of. Morgana would stop at nothing to get rid of Arthur so that she could be queen. Together with her loyal allies, Sir Richard Hogsbottom and his son, Snotty, she had already cooked up three plots against King Arthur, and had very nearly succeeded in killing him twice. But the king would not hear a word against his sister, and instead believed it was all the work of a unknown sorceress. Catching Merlin’s look, Arthur frowned.
“Merlin,” he said, warningly, and his blue eyes were stern. “I know your doubts. But we are agreed that it could not have been Morgana who cast the icespell on Camelot. There is a scheming enchantress out there somewhere, and I want her found. I need you to go and join Sir Boris, find out what is going on. You will leave at once.”
Merlin held Arthur’s gaze for a moment, but the king was unmoved, and finally the wizard nodded.
“I will go, my lord, of course.”
Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and left. Merlin sighed.
“It is a trick. They have deceived Sir Boris, they want me out of the way. But I will have to go. Which means I need you, Max, and the others, to be my eyes and ears while I am gone.”
Max nodded solemnly. They knew that Morgana was plotting something, because she had been overheard talking to Sir Richard Hogsbottom about a mysterious swordspell, a spell that would finally see the end of Arthur, and make her queen. The plot almost certainly involved the Festival of Chivalry, but so far they hadn’t been able to find out anything more, and the festival was taking place in only two days. It was a terrible time for Merlin to be called away.
However, as Merlin strapped on his sword and wrapped his travelling cloak around himself, he seemed to become more cheerful.
“You know, Max, it occurs to me that this might not be such a bad thing. With me gone, they may be less vigilant. You may actually be able to find out what they are planning. I will leave you a couple of swifts, so you can let me know what you find out… Maybe this is the breakthrough we were waiting for.”
As he pulled on his boots, there was a sudden commotion outside. Merlin turned to the tall narrow window and peered out, then grinned.
“Ah,” he said, and his grey eyes were sparkling with amusement. “It seems your sister has just made some equally significant progress. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Mordred yelling his head off, and it looks like Olivia may have unhorsed him.”
Plans and Plots
Olivia was triumphant. Jousting was not normally one of the activities novice squires were expected to learn, and it wasn’t included in the Squires’ Challenge, the competition she was training for. However, the sword master, Sir Gareth, was mad keen on the joust and took every opportunity to organise the squires into a mock tournament. So far, all of these had been won by Mordred of Orkney. Although still officially a novice squire, Mordred had been unofficially handling a lance since he was old enough to get on a horse – one of the many privileges of being the son of King Lot of Orkney. That he was a prince was something Mordred rarely let the other novices forget, lording it over them with his Scottish red hair and long royal nose. Now, however, his hair was streaked with mud and the back of his tunic looked like he’d taken a bath in a swamp, because Olivia had managed to push him off his horse right at the bit of the squires’ training ground where the kitchen staff generally chucked their slop buckets.
The rest of the novice squires were standing around trying not to laugh as Mordred staggered upright, rubbing his head, his face nearly the same colour as his hair. Apart from a few cronies, Mordred was not liked – he threw his weight around too much, and bullied the younger ones. He had bullied Olivia when they first met over the summer at Castle Gore, until she got fed up and landed a hefty punch on his princely nose. After that they had been deadly rivals. The other novices were secretly laying bets on which of the two would win the Squires’ Challenge. Olivia was a better rider, fearless in swordplay, and a fair shot with a bow and arrow – but Mordred was twice as heavy, twice as mean, and had considerably more experience.
As Olivia cantered to a halt by the knot of watching squires, she noticed a tall, rather disreputable-looking knight standing among them, laughing loudly and waving a tankard of ale.
“Nice fall there, Mordred,” he shouted across the training ground to where the muddy squire was standing in the slops. “Elegant. Masterful. Been practising that, have you?”
Mordred looked extremely put out as he tramped over to them. He scowled at Olivia, and then flung his mud-spattered hair out of his eyes and looked up at the knight.
“Push off, Gawaine,” he said, coldly. “I can’t even keep count of the number of times you’ve fallen off your horse.”
“Ah, but never in a joust, little brother,” said Gawaine, tapping the side of his long nose meaningfully. “Only on occasions of slight… well… excess celebration.”
Mordred snorted, and looked at Gawaine’s tankard. “And what’s the celebration for this time, then? Finally managing to get out of bed?”
Gawaine laughed, and Olivia felt herself smiling as well. She had never met Mordred’s older brother, but she’d heard he was coming down for the festival, and assumed he’d be a rather sour, older version of Mordred himself. But Sir Gawaine couldn’t have been more different. He had slightly straggly dark hair, blue eyes, and a three-day growth of beard. Olivia thought he looked rather like a younger, more carefree King Arthur.
“Been practising for the Knight Who Can Quaff the Most Ale in a Single Swallow,” he said, holding up his tankard with a grin. “Can’t let Sir Bertram Pendragon hold the honours forever,” he added, and winked at Olivia, who felt herself blush.
“Nice riding,” he grinned, nodding at her in approval. “And a nifty bit of work with that lance. It’s not easy to unseat Mordred, he’s as heavy as a sack of turnips.”
Olivia laughed, and Gawaine clapped her on the back. “That’s better. Well done, anyway. Looking forward to seeing you in the Challenge.”
He raised an arm to Mordred, who scowled. Then Gawaine headed cheerfully back to the castle just as Sir Gareth bustled over and ordered them all to clear up and get the horses stabled before sundown.
***
As Olivia finished rubbing down her horse, a slight figure with messy brown hair slipped quietly into the stables. The rest of the squires were long gone – anxious to get up to the castle before all the food had been eaten – and only Olivia and her pet dragon, Adolphus, were still in there. Adolphus immediately bounded up to the newcomer and waved his forked tail enthusiastically.
“Did you see, Max? Did you see Olivia push Mordred off his horse? Smack! Into the mud! It was amazing!”
Max grinned, and thumped Olivia on the arm.
“I did see it, Adolphus. Very impressive.”
A large black rat poked its head out of Max’s tunic, and nodded to Olivia.
“Yes, excellent!” the rat said. “A dose of mud was just what Mordred needed. Pity coating your opponent in slime isn’t one of the tasks set for the Squires’ Challenge, or you’d win for sure.”
Olivia gave her horse a last pat, then sat down on a bale of straw, looking despondent.
“The thing is, Ferocious” she said to the rat, “it was great knocking Mordred off his horse, obviously. But it made me realise just how much I really, really want to be a knight. And I don’t think I’ve got a hope of winning the Challenge. It was just luck today – generally Mordred beats me at almost every task. I can’t bear it – if I don’t win the Challenge, Dad won’t let me train to be a knight, and I’ll have to go back to being a lady!” And she sniffed dolefully.
Max patted her on the back, and sat down next to her on the straw bale.
“Don’t worry, Olivia. You’re really good – everyone can see that. We’ll find a way around it if you lose.”
“Yes, yes!” said Adolphus, nudging her with his
long dragon nose. “Don’t be sad, Olivia. Or I might start to cry…”
“And we all know where that will lead,” said Ferocious darkly. “Everyone drowned in a lake of dragon tears – you definitely won’t get to be a knight then.”
Olivia sniffed, and grinned weakly.
“That’s better,” said Max encouragingly. “And anyway, it’s not just the Squires’ Challenge that we need to worry about. We’ve still got to find out what Morgana’s planning for the Festival of Chivalry. Merlin’s had to leave – he’s been sent away to the south by the king. And he thinks we might have more chance of finding out on our own, while he’s gone.”
Olivia considered. “We might. And there’s Lancelot, as well – he’s back tomorrow from a bardic competition in Tintagel.”
Max brightened. It was good to know Lancelot would be there to help them. Lancelot was one of Merlin’s trusted allies. At the moment, he was in disguise as a travelling bard named Caradoc, but in reality, he was a knight, and something of a wizard too. He had been quite useful in Gore, helping them unravel one of Morgana’s previous plots.
“Excellent,” said Max. “Between us, we should be able to keep an eye on Morgana, and Sir Richard, and Snotty, and see what they get up to. I’ve been thinking about it. Our best bet is to stake out her rooms in the north tower. Ferocious has discovered a gap in the tower roof – just by Morgana’s chimney – and I’ve made up some new frogspell potion and some antidote, just for you.”
Olivia wrinkled her nose. “What, so we have to spy as frogs? I really hate being a frog.”
“Tough,” said Max, waving the two bottles of potion he’d just extracted from his belt pouch. “The hole is very conveniently frog-sized, and it’s no good clambering around on the roof as a person, you’ll get spotted instantly. Ferocious and I are planning to watch Morgana tonight, but you’ll have to take over for the morning. You’ll need this to transform, because I’m not doing the frogspell on you – I’m going to be catching up on sleep.”
