The tent was black. The furnishings were black, the tapestries were black, the pillows were black, even the torches were black. Mordred liked black.
And he saw no reason why he shouldn’t have everything decorated just the way he liked it, no matter what anyone else thought, because when you came right down to it…
I’m going to be the next King of what’s left of Britain, and they’re not.
Mordred smiled his sweetly chilling smile. He sat alone in his tent, Caliban across his knees. The weapon was still as he had made it when he drew it from the ice, a slender-headed ax with a long hooked blade. Its shaft was the same black metal as its head, and strong enough to shatter any blade… except one.
Excalibur.
For symmetry’s sake—and in his own way, Mordred was an artist—Caliban should be a sword, so that the black blade and the bright could clash upon the field of battle. He’d thought about changing it back off and on over the past weeks, but when you came right down to it, Mordred wasn’t much of a man for swords. Swords meant knighthood, and ceremony, and honor, and Mordred didn’t care for any of those things. Mordred liked to kill, and he liked to win. And after he’d won, he liked to smash what was left.
An ax was a better tool for smashing things than a sword.
He leaned his head against the back of his chair and half closed his eyes. The red light of the Dragon Star seeped through a crack in the walls of the tent, working its malign magic. A strange dry for filled the air, causing men to sicken and die, and spring this year had never warmed into summer. The crops—those Mordred hadn’t burned—had failed in the fields. There’d be famine this winter, whoever won the battle to come.
Then I’m really doing those sniveling peasants a favor by cutting them down now. But do I get any thanks for it? Of course not!
Twelve weeks before, Mordred had ridden out of Camelot to York, the northernmost of the great Roman walled cities. But he hadn’t attacked the city of York, though he’d come at the head of a sizable army. No, he’d pretended to be one of his own men’s servants, slipped into the city, and vanished amid its teeming populace.
A fortnight later, the fruits of his labors had begun to ripen. Just as at Camelot, there were meetings in cellars, circulated petitions, an anonymous execution or two. And then the people had risen up, thrown out the garrison, and installed Mordred—Prince Mordred, future King of England—as the ruler of York and the North.
Mab had warned him these tricks wouldn’t work on everyone. But as far as Mordred could see, they worked on enough people—and once you had a mob of well-armed, weak-minded followers, you didn’t need either logic or persuasion: everyone else pretty much did what you wanted them to.
And when the time was ripe, Mordred would meet Arthur and his army on the field and crush them utterly, then lay waste to the kingdom in a way that would have turned Old King Vortigern positively green with envy.
“You’re wasting time!” a familiar voice hissed. “The power that I gave you to cloud men’s minds will not last into the dark half of the year!”
“Hello, Auntie Mab,” Mordred said without moving.
A moment later he got gracefully to his feet and stepped down from the black-draped dais his chair rested on. He held out his hand to Mab. “I’ve missed you so,” he said, leaning over to kiss the air beside her cheek.
“Don’t change the subject!” Mab hissed. “Arthur should be dead by now. Why isn’t he?”
“I don’t like to rush things,” Mordred said sulkily. “And if we’re going to play Twenty Questions, where’s Merlin? With all I’ve done to Arthur in the past three months, you’d think that damned wizard would be around to pull his prize pupil’s chestnuts out of the fire, but no one’s so much as seen him.”
“Don’t worry about Merlin. I’ve taken care of him,” Mab said.
“Is it too much to hope you’ve killed him slowly and horribly?” Mordred asked, turning away from her.
Mab didn’t answer.
“I see,” Mordred said, and this time his voice shook with the effort it took to keep his tone light. “Can I offer you a drink? No? I think I’ll have one. It’s been a long day.”
Mab still said nothing. Mordred crossed to the table, where a decanter of black glass stood surrounded by golden goblets inset with cameos of carved jet depicting the Seven Deadly Sins. He picked up the nearest one, poured it full, and drank without concern. No one in his camp would dare to try to poison Prince Mordred… and if they did, well, it simply wouldn’t work. He did, after all, have the strength of ten because his heart was black.
“What are you waiting for?” Mab demanded abruptly. “You must take the throne before Samhain, or all is lost.”
Mordred drank again, leisuredly. So Mab had protected Merlin, hiding him somewhere out of Mordred’s reach, had she? It was no more than he should have expected. She still loved Merlin best, still wanted to keep him safe. But Mordred had no intention of leaving any rivals on the field by the time he was through.
None.
The goblet crumpled in his hand, and he set it down carefully.
He turned to face Mab, leaning back against the table.
“I’m waiting, dear Aunt, for the right time. The time when Arthur has gathered together positively every last bit of support he can possibly muster and gotten it all together in one place so that once I’ve killed the King and every man in his army there won’t be anybody left to oppose me,” he said as if explaining the matter to a child.
And Merlin will come to save Arthur. He must! And I will kill him, too, and then there won’t be anyone else left, will there, Auntie? You will have to love me best of all.…
“You’re a good boy, Mordred,” Mab purred, oblivious to the tenor of Mordred’s inner thoughts. She walked over to him and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “You’ll make me proud of you, won’t you, Mordred?”
“Oh yes, Auntie,” Prince Mordred said. “I quite guarantee it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BATTLE OF THE FOREST
Nimue could hear Merlin singing as he chopped wood for their fire. Though there was neither night nor day here in the Enchanted Forest that Mab had made for them, they had fallen into a regular pattern of waking and sleeping and performing simple homely tasks. Neither of them realized that each time they slept it was for a longer period, until one day soon they would sleep without wakening.
Nimue stirred the porridge for their morning meal and stared into the flames, alone with her thoughts.
They did not make for pleasant company.
With each passing day, Nimue’s secret guilt grew harder to bear. Certainly Merlin had come to the Enchanted Forest of his own free will, but he had also come because she was here. Though he said that Arthur had no further need of him, Nimue knew that did not mean that Merlin’s work in the world was done. His purpose was as it had always been: to defeat Mab. And if Mab still feared Merlin so much that she would construct such an elaborate trap for him, then he must be very near to succeeding. If he went back into the world, perhaps Merlin could still defeat Mab.
But that was where Nimue’s part came in. She was the one trapped by the Enchanted Forest, not Merlin. She could never leave—but if Merlin left, he could never return. Nimue would be trapped here forever. Alone.
If Merlin thought about leaving, Mab counted on Nimue telling him that. Begging him to stay. Keeping him here because he loved her, and turning their love into a weapon for Mab to use against them.
That is not right! Nimue thought sadly.
But what was right? To drive Merlin back out into the world, where men like Mordred and Giraldus waited to destroy him? She had only agreed to Mab’s bargain to save Merlin because she thought that his work in the world was at an end, and because she believed that if that were so, then Merlin’s happiness and safety were the most important things in the world.
But Nimue was beginning to suspect that she was wrong.
All through the weeks that followed, the two com
manders—Arthur and Mordred—moved their playing pieces across the chessboard of Britain, never actually coming to grips. Every day the comet grew larger in the sky, and it seemed as if the land were under a curse of famine and darkness.
Many said that the King was to blame. Arthur had sinned, and the land was blighted because of it. The dragon star was a sign of his wickedness.
Sometimes Arthur wondered if it was true. A King should rule his land, and he had abandoned it to search for the Grail, just as Guinevere had abandoned him for love. A King should rule his people, and instead his people flocked to Mordred’s standard in greater and greater numbers with each passing day.
But Mordred’s army pillaged and raided as Vortigern’s had once done, laying waste to the countryside and terrorizing good people who wanted nothing more than to be left alone peacefully in their homes. Even though they had abandoned him, Arthur had sworn to protect them, and he would do his best to do that for as long as he lived.
And so as the red star grew ever brighter in the sky, Arthur gathered together all those who were still loyal to him and prepared to do battle against his son for the people of Britain.
“Do you think he’ll come?” Gawain asked.
“He’ll come,” Arthur said grimly.
The plains of Sarum were shrouded in a thick grey fog that made it almost impossible for a man to see someone standing six feet away, but Arthur knew that Mordred’s army was out there somewhere. Perhaps at the edge of the forest. Though he knew his own army was behind him, he could not see them either. Each day the cursed mist grew thicker. Perhaps soon they would all be fighting in the dark.
Mordred had asked for a parley, to discuss the terms of surrender. Even though he knew it was a trap, Arthur could not refuse to meet Mordred. He would lose what little support he still had among the nobles if he rejected this seeming chance for peace.
And there was always the chance that Mordred really meant it.
If all he wants is a kingdom to rule, I will give him the north. I would give him the whole kingdom, except that I know what he will do to my followers. I owe them my protection, and so I cannot abdicate, but I can divide my kingdom: give him the north, and leave the south to Gawain. I thought things would never come to this—I thought there could be nothing worse than Mordred’s rule—but I was wrong. If we do not make peace, we will destroy the whole land between us.
The sun was already high in the sky. Normally battles—or parleys that might end in battles—started at dawn so that the combatants could have as much daylight as possible in which to fight, but since the red star had appeared in the west, darkness continued long past sunrise. Mordred had not yet appeared, and it was nearly noon.
In the distance, a horn sounded.
“That’s the signal,” Arthur said. He started to ride forward.
Gawain stopped him with a hand on his horse’s bridle.
“At least wait until we see them, Sire. Mordred doesn’t want peace. He wants you dead.”
“And I want him dead, may God forgive me,” Arthur said.
A few moments later, the white flag appeared through the mist. Arthur and Gawain rode toward it. In his hand, Gawain held a hunting horn with which he could signal the start of battle if the parley turned out to be an ambush.
Mordred rode a black horse, and his armor was a dull iron grey. He wore a helm with fantastic bat-wings sweeping out from the sides, and a black surcoat and cloak. Upon his chest his symbol, the eclipse, shone in dull silver. Beside him rode the knight who was carrying the flag of truce. As far as Arthur and Gawain could see, the two men were alone.
“Mordred,” Arthur said.
“Father,” Mordred said mockingly.
There was a moment of silence.
“Well?” Gawain said. “This is a parley. What are your terms?”
“Oh, I never had any terms,” Mordred said lightly. “I just wanted to see if you’d come. You see, I’m ready to kill you now, and I thought this would be the most convenient place. Shall we fight?”
They were really going to do it. Frik gripped his spear nervously. There were rumors that Mordred wanted to surrender, but Frik knew the little reptile better than Arthur did. Surrender was the last thing on Mordred’s mind. And when Mordred didn’t surrender, they would fight. And Frik would be there in the thick of it.
He couldn’t believe he was betraying his principles this way. Frik was a devout coward. But his principles could do nothing to assuage his anger at Mab. Oh yes, he had helped her do her worst. But now he wanted to make amends, and fighting for Arthur would be a good start.
Suddenly he heard a horn sound three long blasts—the signal to charge. Just as I thought. All around him men began to cheer. The man ahead of Frik began to trot forward. Frik took a tighter grip on his spear and followed.
All around him, unseen in the mist, the two armies rolled toward each other like tides. Then they met, and the ring of steel began to echo across the plains of Sarum.
Merlin lay drowsily beside Nimue in a drift of fallen leaves, looking up at the starless sky. The leaves formed a canopy of gold, their brilliant sparkle making up for the lack of sun and moon. A gentle breeze played over his face, ruffling the feathers on his cloak. Though he knew he had come here through a cave, Merlin had no sense of being enclosed in any way. Perhaps this really was Barnstable Forest, somehow magically perfected by Mab.
As always, thinking of Mab disturbed him, as though there were something he had forgotten.
“This is so beautiful, isn’t it?” Nimue said.
“Yes,” Merlin answered, his train of thought vanishing at the sound of her voice. He wondered what he had been thinking in the moment before she spoke.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been very important.
The fighting had been going on for hours. Most of the horses had been killed by archers, and Gawain and Arthur were both fighting on foot. They had become separated in the fog.
An armored man wearing Mordred’s colors rushed at Gawain. The Iceni prince slashed at him, and he fell, only to be replaced by another. No matter how many of Mordred’s men Gawain killed, there were always more to replace them. This one Gawain stabbed through the belly, then braced his boot against the dying man to yank the sword free. All around him, Gawain could hear the roar of battle and the shouts of the dying. He hoped none of them was Mordred.
He wanted to kill Mordred himself, for Jenny’s sake.
Gawain had seen Mordred a few minutes earlier, before the last wave of attack. In his bat-winged helmet the usurper was easy to spot, but Mordred could have been easily identified even if he wore the same armor as his men. Mab’s brat fought with unnatural strength and demonic ferocity. One blow from his ax was enough to cut a man in half. Gawain could not imagine the number of men Mordred must have slain today.
But numbers did not matter. Despite Mordred’s ferocity, Gawain knew that Arthur’s forces were winning. Whatever spell Mordred had cast over his troops to get them to fight, it seemed to be failing. They were fleeing the battlefield, and Arthur’s troops were not. Today, victory would belong to Arthur.
Gawain cut down another man, felt someone behind him, and turned quickly, but there was no attack. Mordred stood a few feet away, maddeningly calm and composed. There was not a scratch on him, or even a drop of the blood of the men he had slain.
“Gawain. What a pleasant surprise,” he said archly.
“Stop talking, Mordred, and fight,” Gawain snarled. It was Mordred who had dishonored his sister, not Lancelot—Mordred who was the cause of all the sorrow in Camelot. And if he could spare Arthur the pain of having to execute the monster that was his own son, Gawain would happily do it.
“I thought you might enjoy some light conversation before you die—but as you wish.”
Gawain swung his sword before Mordred had finished speaking, but Mordred parried it with ease. His strength and speed were against nature, and in the space of a dozen blows he had battered the sword from Gawain’s hands
. Mordred tore off Gawain’s helmet, holding the blade of his ax against Gawain’s cheekbone, forcing Gawain to his knees as he bled from the wounds—none yet fatal—that Mordred had given him.
Why doesn’t he finish me? Gawain wondered.
“Mordred!”
Lord Lot appeared out of the mists, roaring with fury as he ran to rescue his son.
It was what Mordred had been waiting for. He whipped the ax backward. A blade shot out of the back of its head, piercing Lot through the heart.
“Father!” Gawain screamed. He floundered forward on his knees, falling across Lot’s body. Lot’s eyes stared skyward, sightless in death. Father…
“Clever boy,” Gawain heard Mordred say as consciousness left him.
Until Excalibur was carried into the Battle of Sarum against Mordred, the enchanted sword had never been raised in battle. Merlin had struck down Vortigern with its magic only, and Uther had never truly possessed Excalibur. Arthur had carried the sword for many years without ever drawing Excalibur in anger. Now everything changed.
The legend said that Excalibur could not be defeated, and today Arthur proved the legend true. The sword seemed to move of its own will, mowing down the men who faced it as though they were summer wheat.
But Arthur wielded more than a blade of steel. Excalibur was a blade of spirit as well, and the spirit of the sword cut through the spell that had bound Mordred’s armies to him. Everywhere on that battlefield men came to their senses, the dark glamour that had seduced them vanishing as night vanishes before the dawn. They ran from the field in increasing numbers—or surrendered to Arthur’s troops—and slowly, Arthur felt the tide of battle turning.
Slowly, he began to believe in the possibility of victory.
He’d lost Gawain in the mist and the trees. Looking for him, Arthur ran across Sir Boris, leaning against a tree, his sword resting upon the leaves. There was a footman beside him, leaning on his pike.
Sir Boris had been a warrior since Arthur’s father was a child. Arthur had begged the old knight not to accompany the army on this campaign, but Sir Boris had refused to heed him, and in his heart Arthur could not blame him. In this war, there were no noncombatants.
The End of Magic Page 18
