by Peter David
“Gwen, what—”
There was a sudden tug at his hip. He looked around to see a waiter behind him. The man’s face was narrow, almost satanic, as with a fierce certainty he grabbed the invisible scabbard that hung at Arthur’s side and yanked. There was a rip as the scabbard came free and the waiter leaped back, the invisible prize in his hands.
Arthur completely forgot about Gwen as he leaped toward the waiter, who back pedaled furiously. The entire room was now in an uproar. Everyone was demanding from each other what the hell was going on, and no one knew. Men grabbed for their wives, wives grabbed for their evening bags.
The waiter banged into Percival, who was standing behind him like a dark brick wall. Percival, however, not realizing that the waiter was clutching the invisible sword, acted with the instinct that comes naturally to a knight whose primary concern is protecting his liege. He picked the waiter up by either arm, grunted slightly, and threw the waiter off the dais. He crashed into the front table, knocking it flat, sending plates, utensils, and the centerpiece crashing to the floor.
Percival’s moment of satisfaction lasted only as long as it took Arthur to whisper to him fiercely, “He’s got Excalibur!” Realizing his error, Percival tried to vault the distance to the waiter, but now there was too much commotion, people shouting in confusion, crowds of people stumbling over each other and blocking a clear path.
The waiter darted past Merlin’s table. Arthur hesitated for only a moment, glancing at the fallen Gwen, who now seemed unconscious, saw the crowds of people surging around, and said tightly to Percival, “Stay here with Gwen. Make certain she’s all right and restore order to this insanity. I’ll go after Excalibur.”
“But, highness!” protested Percival, slipping momentarily into the old-fashioned form of address after months of remembering to call him “Arthur” or, more comfortably, “Mr. Penn.”
“It’s my sword,” Arthur reminded him with burning pride, and moments later the former King of the Britons was hard on the heels of the fleeing waiter.
“Arthur!” shouted Merlin, and he tossed the blue-stained dish. Arthur caught it without breaking stride and shoved it in his pants pocket, without the faintest idea why Merlin had blessed him with such an odd gift at this particular moment. Just before he was out of earshot, Merlin shouted, “Look through it!”
The half-dozen waiters had regrouped, and as one they ran out the side of the room, through the swinging doors. Arthur was right after them, and directly behind them came the TV camera crews, excited by the thought that what had seemed a standard money-raising dinner had suddenly blossomed into a potential lead item for the eleven o’clock news.
The waiters smashed through the kitchen, the holder of Excalibur in the lead. Cooks were pushed roughly out of the way and kitchen utensils clattered onto the floor. Arthur did not even take the time to mutter “Excuse me” as he shoved past. There was a rolling cart of dishes off to the right. One of the waiters paused momentarily, grabbed it, and toppled it. A resounding crash rang through the kitchen, as miles of dishes spilled out and shattered in Arthur’s path. He vaulted, skidding slightly when he landed, but he continued the pursuit. The camera crews, on the other hand, were not as lucky. They slid headlong into the mess of dirty dishes and leftover food on the previously spotless floor, and with a multitude of yells, went down, one atop the other.
One of the fleeing waiters stumbled, banging into a water pitcher set to one side. The water tumbled off and it splashed on the waiter’s leg. To Arthur’s confusion, he let out a strangled cry and clutched at the leg as if it had been injured, before limping out the door as fast as he could after his associates.
Arthur burst out into the open air of the back alley. It took a moment for his eyes to readjust to the gloom of the night, and then he saw the bright red jackets of the waiters only yards away, dashing down the alley toward the street. Arthur gave chase, shucking his expensive dinner jacket and tossing it aside.
The waiters made it to the sidewalk and then did exactly what Arthur feared they would do—split up. Arthur felt a surge of panic, suddenly regretting that Percival wasn’t by his side to aid him in his pursuit. How was he supposed to follow the one with the invisible sword? Which one had it?
He felt a bulge in his pants pocket and remembered the dish Merlin had tossed him. What had Merlin said? Look through it. He pulled out the dish and peered through the blueness, and the moment he did, he made an awful sound deep in his throat. Spotting the waiter bearing Excalibur turned out not to be a problem: through the blue lens the sword became visible, even though it had not been drawn from its scabbard. But what horrified Arthur was the thing holding it.
It was covered completely with brown scales, its torso elongated so that it was hunched over. Its hands ended in three long, tapering claws. Its head was similar to an alligator’s, except the snout was not quite as long. It turned its malevolent green eyes on Arthur and snarled a guttural warning through a double row of pointed teeth. However, it did look snappy in its red waiter’s jacket and pressed black slacks.
It turned and faced Arthur, drawing Excalibur from the sheath. Arthur saw his sword glowing dimly in the evening light, and rather than fear, he felt rage that this ... this thing was soiling his beloved sword with its foul hands.
Passersby who saw only an angry waiter, incensed perhaps because he’d been stiffed on a tip, nevertheless drew back in fright when they saw the immense sword he wielded. Arthur approached cautiously, arms spread out, legs flexed, never taking his eyes from his opponent. He growled low in his throat as he inched closer and closer to the demon. Cars slammed to a halt on nearby Forty-seventh Street. Two small children, who lived in an apartment above a deli that had closed for the night, leaned out their window and watched in fascination.
The demon swung Excalibur in an arc and hissed, “Morgan Le Fey sends her regards, King of Nothing!” The demon slashed Excalibur down and Arthur dove to one side, rolling and quickly getting to his feet. The demon closed on him, swinging the blade back and forth. It whizzed through the air like an angry hornet, and Arthur could do nothing except stay the hell out of the way. He stumbled once and the demon almost caught him flat-footed, swinging Excalibur around, and Arthur leaped out of its path. The blade sliced through a parking meter, cutting it neatly in half at the middle of the pole.
Arthur backed up, looking around desperately for something to intervene. He heard a police car’s siren, but it was a long way off, and besides, there was a chance that police would not be able to aid him against this nightmare creature.
“Afraid, Arthur?” crowed the demon. “You have a good head on your shoulders. Let’s see if you can keep it there.”
Arthur retreated farther, thankful at least that the bystanders had had the sense to get away. Then his retreat was momentarily halted as he bumped into a large iron object behind him. His questing fingers immediately informed him he’d run up against a fire hydrant.
The demon was barely a yard away, and this time Arthur didn’t flinch. “All right, you bastard,” he snarled. “Give it your best shot.”
With unearthly glee the demon swung Excalibur back over its head and then brought the blade racing downward. Arthur waited until the last possible instant, waited until the weight of Excalibur would make the sword’s trajectory unalterable. And when it was bare inches from the top of his head, Arthur sprang catlike to one side. Excalibur sliced deep into the fire hydrant.
In a rage the demon yanked Excalibur to one side. The blade effortlessly cut through the rest of the hydrant, and in a sudden gush, water blew forth from the broken hydrant. It sprayed upward and sideways. The demon was caught in the face and chest by the full impact of the water. With a howl it went down, clawing at the clean water that, to the demon, was like acid. Excalibur flew from its grasp and clattered to the ground. Arthur watched with grim satisfaction.
Arthur was on the sword in an instant, and within the next was upon the demon. He held the sword at the creature’s ne
ck and snarled, “What was the plan? Why did you want Excalibur? Tell me. Tell me or I swear to heaven—”
And to Arthur’s momentary astonishment, the creature suddenly flung itself forward, running itself through upon Excalibur. It grinned in what could only be seen as a perverse sort of triumph, as what passed for blood in a demon seeped to the ground.
A hole appeared in the demon’s chest. Arthur looked down in surprise as a small creature darted forth from the already disintegrating body. It flittered this way and that, leaving a trail of flame behind it. Arthur stared at it in wonder and muttered, “A fire elemental. Upon my sword, I thought I’d seen the last of—”
The elemental gingerly danced around the water droplets, still spraying from the fountaining hydrant. Then it caught sight of Arthur, and it flared in alarm and anger. Arthur frowned, suddenly aware that this small creature intended no good at all. He yanked Excalibur from the demon’s throat and in one smooth movement sliced upward at the fire creature. The little ball of flame avoided him, spun around his head so close that it singed his eyebrows, then headed straight for the building that housed the closed deli.
“No!” shouted Arthur, but it was too late. The elemental hit the building at full speed. There was a loud fwoosh, and it was as if the two-story building had been firebombed. The downstairs windows exploded as fire leaped out from them, illuminating the street in a nightmarish glow of orange. Smoke poured out from the shattered windows, both downstairs and upstairs.
As Arthur’s gaze took in the second floor, he was horrified to see two children in one of the windows. The air crackled and became acrid with the biting sting of the smoke. The children screamed.
The police car was pulling up, and one of the cops was shouting into the radio, “Forget the disturbance call! Get a fire truck here!” but how long now before the fire fighters would arrive? Furthermore, Arthur realized—as he looked around the area in horror—there would be nothing for them to hook up to. The hydrant had been slashed in half, thanks to his brilliant tactic.
Without hesitation Arthur stepped into the stream of water that gushed from the hydrant. The water soaked his clothes, his body, his hair. He glanced over to where the demon lay, and was pleased to see nothing but a small pile of soot where the creature had once been. That was convenient—he hadn’t relished the thought of explaining the presence of a recently slain corpse to the authorities. Arthur stepped out of the water then, grabbed up Excalibur’s scabbard, and slid the weapon back into his sheath, buckling the now unseeable blade back onto his belt even as he raced toward the burning building. He heard the police officers shouting for him to come back but he didn’t hesitate.
THE PLACE WAS pandemonium. People were surging toward the exits, hearing the police sirens, hearing explosions, trying to determine what the hell was going on. Percival was on the dais, trying to shout for order and calm and, unfortunately, being ignored.
Merlin, in the meantime, was watching Gwen, who was now sitting and looking ragged and not just a little frightened ... and suspicious ... and guilty.
Something was wrong, extremely wrong. Although part of his instinct was to go out and help Arthur, he was now convinced that something was definitely up with Gwen. Although Merlin might have disputes about the way Arthur handled himself in front of voters and reporters, he was absolutely steadfast in his confidence in the king when it came to matters of combat. Arthur in the short term over demons didn’t worry him; Gwen, in the long term over anything did, and it was time to sort things out.
Merlin started toward her, questions forming on his lips, when someone blocked the way. The young wizard glanced up. It was another waiter, with a very unpleasant look. Merlin stepped back, but the waiter drew back his fist and sent a roundhouse punch sailing toward Merlin’s chin. A ring glowed momentarily on the fist that came toward him, punching through the defensive ward Merlin hurriedly tried to erect. Merlin went down as if he’d been poleaxed, the floor spinning around him. He tried to stagger to his feet even as the waiter/demon grabbed up a chair and brought it slamming down on the magician’s head. Stars exploded in Merlin’s skull and he fell to the ground, unconscious.
THE TV CREWS emerged from the building just as the police cars pulled up out front. Seeing the fire, the newsmen automatically trained their minicams on the blaze. It took them a few seconds to realize that there were children trapped inside, and even a few seconds more before they saw that the would-be next mayor of New York was risking his life in a mad dash into the inferno.
Arthur took one glance upward, saw that the children were hysterical, saw that there was no way he was going to be able to talk them into trying to jump down, even though they would likely survive the drop—especially if he used his own body to break the fall. However, he did not relish the idea of entering the building—the intensity of the heat was almost overwhelming.
Then, as he studied the wall, he had an idea. He removed his shoes and began to scale the side of the building.
It was easier than he’d dared hope. The building front was brick, and the windows and doors had been built with so many outcroppings that it had been practically designed for handholds. From the corner of his eye Arthur saw that residents of the building were charging out the front, as were those to either side, and he was thankful for that. There was only so much he could do in terms of getting people to safety, and he had to deal with one crisis at a time.
He went higher, higher. Flame flared out from the window beneath him, licking at his pants cuff, and he had to reach down to pat it out. The wall was heating up under his touch. In moments it would be too hot for him to hold on. Bracing himself, he thrust himself higher, and his desperate reach grabbed the outcropping of a narrow ledge. It was all that he needed to pull himself up and away from the window. He scrabbled apelike (and he thought for a moment of Gwen’s reference to a monkey suit—how right she had been) with his hands holding the ledge and his feet braced on the wall directly below.
He heard the sound of the children before he saw them. Hundreds of sparks flew at him and dissipated on the fabric of his wet clothing. He thanked his common sense for the protective move he’d made earlier, or otherwise he’d have had a lot more to worry about than that one singed pants cuff.
EVERYONE FROM MERLIN’S table had already moved away, and so they did not see the incident. Only Percival and Gwen were left at the front table, everyone else having headed outside. But Percival saw, and he leaped over the head table, shouting, “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put him down, right now!”
He closed in on the demon, but the monster swept its arm around, throwing Percival back like a rag doll. Percival fell over the table, knocking over the centerpiece and catching up the tablecloth. He hit the ground and lay still.
“What are you doing?” shrieked Gwen, running toward him. “You only wanted the sword! Morgan said all you wanted was the sword!”
The waiter grinned at her in an unearthly way. “Morgan lied,” it growled. “She does that sometimes.”
“Put him down! Now!” She grabbed at the thing, grabbed at its shirt, and a piece of it tore off in her hand as it shoved her back effortlessly, knocking her over several chairs. With a contemptuous sneer, the demon threw Merlin into the middle of a tablecloth, rolled him up in it, and moments later was darting out the kitchen exit with the unprotesting bundle slung over its shoulder. And just like that, Marlin was gone.
ARTHUR LOOKED UP through the smoke at the crying children. “Hold on,” he called. “I’ll be right there!” His heart pumping furiously, he pulled himself up so that his face was even with the bottom of the window. He saw the frightened, smoke-smeared faces.
“Come with me!” he shouted.
To his utter astonishment, they backed up, shaking their heads. The little girl said, “Our mommy will be mad! She ... she said she was just running out for some milk ... she’d be right back ... we weren’t supposed to go anywhere!”
“We’re not allowed to go with strange
rs!” the boy said, as the room filled with smoke.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” bellowed Arthur as he stepped in through the window and approached the children.
They pointed at him and started shouting over and over again, “Stranger danger, stranger danger!”
“This is ridiculous,” Arthur muttered, as he slung them under his arms, and turned toward the window to get back out.
Then he saw it. Between him and the window, there was a leaking gas line, and flame was leaping right at it.
There was no time. The closest exit was now the door, and Arthur slammed into it at full speed, taking the entire impact with his shoulder. He crashed through the thin door, sending wood flying everywhere, just as the apartment behind him exploded. He fancied that he could hear the screams outside as they saw the window through which he’d entered obliterated by a wall of flame.
The children were no longer screaming in protest. They were clutching on to him for dear life, the only sound coming from them being soft whimpering.
There was fire everywhere. He had stopped breathing, fearing the smoke would collapse a lung. Flame was licking at the banister of the stairs, and the wooden steps were smoldering but had not yet gone up. He ran down them, trying not to fall, overbalanced as he was with the children in tow.
Suddenly, his foot went through one of the steps and his leg went through up to his knee. With a howl of pain and fury, Arthur extracted the leg, which was now cut and bleeding. He fought off the pain; there wasn’t time for it now, it would be dealt with later. He stumbled, staggered down the steps, hearing a cracking overhead that told him the roof was in danger of collapsing.
The door was just ahead of him. Unfortunately, so was what appeared to be a wall of flame. The heat almost drove him back, but to go back was to perish. Arthur steeled himself for a moment, holding the children as close to him as he could, and charged. He darted through the flame, almost losing consciousness, and suddenly he was in the open air, stumbling down the front steps of the building. He lost his grip on the children, heard them sobbing as they tumbled away from him, and then he realized that he was on fire. Without hesitation he fell to the ground and rolled, and the quick movement was exactly what was needed to snuff out the flames before they consumed him.
