“Mechas?” Arthur repeated her.
“That is you. A mecha,” the girl said. Now the air had become so thick that Arthur could barely move his tongue. “You live in a world with floating boats and pollution. Someday, I think our worlds will either collide, or we will drift away from one another.”
“I hope not,” Arthur said. He looked around for his sword. “Oh my God,” he said. “Where did my sword go? I must have left it.”
“I put it in between the worlds to hold the veil open,” the girl said. She pushed him through. He fell into the other side, and suddenly realized that the heavy air came from his side of the world.
“Wait!” he said. “Sweeting, what is your name—”
But there was no one there. Arthur looked around at a desolate, gray plain. The Avalon Outlands were smoldering in the aftermath of the battle. Dead men lay everywhere, and the smoke of the factory was billowing over to the forests. Arthur trudged through the battlefield, when he was met by the Merlin. The old man had waited for him.
“Merlin,” Arthur said. “You’re... you’re alive.”
“And so are you, son,” the old man said, his voice cracking, and he packed Arthur in a bear embrace. “Where were you?”
“You won’t believe it,” Arthur said. “I was in the land of the Fae.”
The man creased his thick gray brows. “A human cannot enter their lands, Arthur. You must have been dreaming.”
“I wasn’t, sire!” Arthur said excitedly. “I met a girl there—a beautiful girl. I want to see her again!”
They went home, in the Merlin’s airship, where they also took in many wounded soldiers. Some men had been in battle many years now, and had machine parts where once they had limbs, such as, instead of an arm, they would have a gun sprouting from their shoulder.
Back in the city, Arthur visited the bar to see Guinevra. She embraced him when she saw him, and laughed brightly. Arthur sat down, ready for one of her drinks, but suddenly thought again of the little girl with the waist-long brown hair.
Guinevra mixed a concoction of fruits and juice and chilled it in ice, before putting it before him. “Chamomile, lavender, peppermint, and sage,” she said. “It will cool off your humors. You are flushed beyond recognition, Arthur!” She came close, her eyes wide with excitement. He gazed at her as she gushed, “So how was the battlefield? Did you kill a fae?”
“I did,” he replied calmly.
“How did it feel? Do you think they will turn back into their lands now?” Guinevra whispered. She held his hand, and he clasped her hand in his.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, you are so brave, Arthur!” Guinevra cried.
As Arthur left the bar, he sensed a small figure walking near him. The authoritative aura was overwhelming, so he stopped and turned around. It was a female Merlin with green eyes, like he had seen in his vision. She lowered her hood and whispered,
“Come with me, Arthur Pendragon. I have heard from your grandfather where you have been.”
“I have learned enough of magic, Merlin,” Arthur said. “I have other things I’m thinking about.”
“Ah but you are not a boy anymore, but a man!” the woman said. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”
Arthur followed her into the abode of the Merlins, or at least, one of their abodes. Here they practiced magic freely. Arthur walked right into the electric field of two Merlins dueling. The woman took him to a small corner, where she spread out a blanket.
“You can call me grandmother, of course. I may not be your mentor, but I am still a Merlin and so shall accept the correct title.” She waited a little for his response, and added, “You can have more than one mentor, Arthur.”
Arthur bowed his head in respect and agreement.
The Merlin twitched her mouth in a small smile. “You have much you’re thinking of. But what is it? What ails you, Arthur?”
“I saw the land of the fae, grandmother.”
“Did you now?” The woman smiled and nodded. “Then you must be blessed by the Lord beyond belief.”
“I saw something other than what we are saying, grandmother,” Arthur said. “I saw... fields, people working them... crops of some kind, which the girl... the girl called wheat.”
“The girl.” The woman nodded again.
“Do you know her?” Arthur asked. “Does she appear in your dreams, too?”
“Know her?” The woman laughed. “I may know her. But she is very fond of you.”
Arthur looked down and shook his head. “That makes no sense to me, grandmother.”
“She is of noble birth... and she the daughter of Gorlois, a Roman war lord, who rules that village.”
“Roman... what a strange name. So you do know her,” Arthur said.
“Yes,” the woman said. “I met her one time, when the veil was thinner than now, and the wars greater. Back then, we did not yet use our technology and magic to beat the fae, who possess no magic. No, they are a kind that needs to work the land to survive. They need to hunt, and gather their food—they cannot use magic. They are a non-noble kind. That is why many of our world think they need to die.”
“She called her land the Glastonbury Tor,” Arthur said.
“Glastonbury Tor,” the Merlin witch said. “Hm... It is not the name of their land. It is a place. I have heard of it before. That is where they have their cloister, and worship their Goddess. But soon, it will be a God. A seer has foretold me that this would happen.”
“Did you see me walk into that other world, Merlin?” Arthur asked.
“I did…I saw you briefly, when you injured yourself,” the Merlin replied. “It happens often to us when another Merlin is in battle. We see visions…”
“What is their land called?” Arthur asked.
“I believe the peasant fae call their world England,” the Merlin witch said.
“Eng-land,” Arthur said. “Very strange.”
“And they name themselves human, too…Something I find mysterious. Their world is larger than ours,” the Merlin witch went on. “But they do not possess magic, like we do. The last I heard, they were warring a violent people called the Saxons on their southernmost shore.”
“Fantastical,” Arthur murmured. “And this girl... I wonder what her name was.”
“Her name is Morgan,” said the woman. “She is your sister, Arthur.”
Arthur was walking along the upper floor of the city, looking over the factory-spotted human world which the fae called mecha. The air was a yellowish haze, and airships flew by everywhere, their cogs cranking and creaking. Guinevra was supposed to meet him here, but she had not yet come. That made sense to Arthur, since she probably worked at the bar late.
He stared at the cloudy peak of the uppermost clock tower of the City. He had to go to Fae again. Something drew him... something... weird. Who was Morgan, besides his sister? Who was Gorlois, the marcher lord? Who were the fae? Had the humans in this world, after all, erred in judging them? Perhaps it was the humans in his world that started the war!
Arthur saw something in his sheath that he had not looked at before. It was glistening, and he pulled it out. It was a sword—not his. It was made of an extraordinary material he had never seen before—not the wooden rocks of his world, but a strong, glowing metal that he could not even bend. Arthur turned the hilt. It read ‘Excalibur’.
Excalibur, Arthur thought. He looked out into the misty world that he knew to be his own. This world of Fae... this world needed someone to fight off the Saxon invaders. The Fae needed a savior in this world called England. And he figured he would be a good choice.
CHAPTER 15
Airship Arthur, by Bokerah Brumley
Act One
Skies Over the Channel
Young Arthur Pendragon lowered the worn, leather book and rubbed his eyes. The inked text had blurred, his pupils fatigued from several hours of non-stop study of the compendium of essays on magic. He didn’t understand half of it, but he’d bee
n trying to distract himself. Myrddin Wyllt, the wizard, had a bout of foretelling and forced the book on him before they’d left, muttering about a quest, a kingly sword, and sisters of dark waters.
Myrddin might have just told him what was coming or kept his old, hooked nose in his own business. Despite Myrddin’s uncanny ability to make the Camelot airships go faster, magic had no place in Arthur’s scientific life. And Myrddin hadn’t yet taken the hint.
Arthur crossed the deck to stare over the galleon’s railing, considering the sunset sky as a thunderhead built in the distance farther out to sea. The vivid colors were impressive, a testament to the marvel of the earth. Lightning flashed from point-to-point inside the cloud. They’d have to keep an eye on that storm. He hadn’t planned on being tossed about today. It was a day for the unexpected, and twilight would be on them soon.
A hot air balloon, the length and breadth of the ship beneath it, kept the richly furnished galleon suspended over the earth and a steam engine turned the propeller that kept them from being victims of the currents over the channel. The patchwork blimp rested against three pillars-or short masts-as Author called them.
Arthur could see the White Cliffs on the horizon. Dover Castle wasn’t far. Perhaps his cousin knew of a blacksmith and a tinker that could help them fix their cylinder.
Normally, they carried spares of everything. Bors insisted he had checked the inventory before they left home, yet no replacement could be found. Arthur’s gaze strayed to the pirate-bearded Gawain as he manned the helm. All of his men were fiercely loyal. It wasn’t easy to call it sabotage, but there was something odd about cracking a carefully maintained cylinder and then having no replacement, forcing an unscheduled landing at Dover Castle.
“Can I get you anything, Captain?” Percival asked in a soft voice. In stark contrast to the dark coloring of Arthur, the blond-haired boy was pale enough to be sickly and entirely too sneaky, always at Arthur’s elbow before he realized it. He’d finally gotten used to Percival’s ways, but not before he’d been close to decking the young squire once or twice in an adrenaline-soaked reaction.
“Thank you, Percival, no,” Arthur answered as he doffed his leather skullcap and dragged a hand over his not-so-smooth head. The new growth was itchy today. It was time for another aerodynamic shave from Galahad. “I’m on my way to the engine room,” Arthur added.
Percival tilted his head and nodded, his mouth tight. Percival knew they’d lost one piston just as they’d started over the deeper waters. Even at their crossing, the narrowest point over the channel, it took more time than they might have to make it to Dover and the castle there.
“Come on, Percy. Poker’s more fun with you,” brown-haired Bedivere called, adjusting her over-sized long shirt over her own pair of tailored breeches. She was an odd duck, but a fine swordswoman. She kept her hair tied back, always threatening to chop it off completely since everyone already thought she was Sir Bedivere anyway. The people of Camelot had gotten used to her waistcoats and Hessian boots, but she still caused a stir when she went out in public outside of Camelot. Bedivere had learned Poker from a New Orleans debutante visiting her extended family in Paris, and she’d mastered the bluff. She was still clueless about Percival’s feelings for her, though.
Arthur left them to their game and headed below decks. The wooden stair squeaked beneath his well-worn Wellingtons. Footsteps from behind divulged Galahad’s attendance. Arthur said nothing, but continued on his way to meet the mechanic at the rear of the hold.
Older than Arthur by several years, Bors used a dirty rag to wipe perspiration from his forehead. “Arthur, this cannot wait,” Bors said as he moved his thickly-glassed goggles to the top of his head. “I cannot fix her without supplies.” What with the perfect circles surrounding the bright blue eyes atop, the scraggly red beard below, and the madman grin between, most wouldn’t take advice from Sir Bors, the Younger, but Arthur knew better.
Bors went on, “And the cracked cylinder is putting unbalanced stress on the rod,” he pointed at the part in question “will warp it as crooked as Mr. Slatterly.”
“And then?” Arthur wasn’t mechanical, but Bors’ intensity didn’t bode well.
Bors held up two gloved hands, his fingers exposed. “Boom.” He opened his hands to accentuate the prognosis. “Catastrophic failure.” He tilted his head with a thoughtful look. “Maybe fireworks. Could be exciting.” Nothing much scared the wild fellow. “So far, I can correct the rod, but we’ve got to set down as soon as possible.”
Arthur sighed and crossed his arms. He laid a finger over his mouth to keep Bors from launching into another accounting of the myriad reasons to land. He stared into the engine before dismissing Bors and Galahad, taking his private ladder up through the floor and to the Captain’s Quarters above. In his room, he deposited his book and took a drink from a canteen, weighing the options.
When Arthur inherited a dream and a notebook full of plans, Bors had come along for the adventure. Arthur placed implicit trust in the Scotsman. Bors had been loyal and faithful to the sword point many times over in the past years, but setting down in a fly-over town could be risky.
There was only one hamlet between the White Cliffs and Dover Castle. Most of the countryside peasants had never seen a Camelot airship, much less had one set down between their haystacks and ask to rummage through the town, looking for supplies. Villagers, united by purpose, could overrun the decks, pillage, and burn. But, on the other hand, if the engine failed before they reached a safe haven, they’d have to put down on the cliffs or in the water or a field and abandon the Ether Joy in the ocean spray, leaving her to whatever fate she found. To avoid a total loss, Arthur was willing to risk the extra distance to Dover Castle.
His crossed the floor, strolling through the other entrance and out between two closets. On the open deck, Arthur leaned on the wall as he studied the crewmen aboard. They were a light crew this trip, several knights and Percival the squire. Tristan was chasing after some Irish lass—Isolde, if he recalled—and had declined to join the jaunt to Paris to plan next month’s first annual airship races against the Templars. Several members of the round table had remained in Winchester to protect their manufacturing business. Lancelot and the others were some of his longsword-best, and it was up to them to keep things secret until the official announcement. Great Britain would soon command the airways. The Paris-based Templars weren’t a threat, they didn’t have Myrddin and his unique wealth of knowledge.
That left only Percival, Galahad, Gawain, Bors, and himself to fend off any attack on the Ether Joy. He heard a raucous, feminine laugh amid a chorus of manly groans. He shouldn’t forget Bedivere. She was a fair hand at fighting and at cards. He grinned. Sounded like Bedivere was winning again.
When Arthur glanced upward, Bors was leaning against the closest short mast, picking his teeth with a dagger. “I’m aiming for Dover Castle,” Arthur said. “We’ll make it that far.” He wished his voice held more confidence. Noting a droop at the corners of Bors’ mouth, Arthur added, “Otherwise, perhaps we can find berth in a lowly hamlet that won’t try to burn us at the stake.”
“It won’t be anything like Dublin, Captain Arthur, despite how you miss the excitement.” Bors cackled like a preening rooster at his own humor, and it eased the sense of foreboding that settled in Arthur’s stomach. Dublin had been entirely Bors’ fault, but a rousing adventure all the same.
Later, as the five shipmates stood around the middle short mast, Arthur declared, “Gentlemen, we’re going to set the Ether Joy down at Dover and try scavenging for spare parts, a tinker, or a blacksmith that might be able to help us.” After they all nodded, he continued. “We aren’t far, and maybe we can limp into town.”
Gawain stroked his beard, tugging on the strands. “Might we have a respite in the castle?”
“Any particular reason, Gawain?” Arthur passed a hand over his mouth to hide the smirk. He already knew that Gawain had a courting maid he corresponded with, using carrie
r pigeons between Camelot and Dover Castle.
“I may visit Lord Henry’s armory,” he harrumphed, but pink spread across his cheeks. “A man can never have too many weapons.”
Arthur let Gawain have his privacy and didn’t press him or tease him any further. “We’ll take two days,” Arthur said. “That should give Bors a chance to enjoy a bit of time in the keep after we repair the steam engine.”
“Aye,” Bors interjected. “That sounds fine.” He tapped the railing. “How far?”
Arthur studied the sun in the sky and the lay of the land ahead. “By dark,” he said.
“Bit hard to land in the dark,” Galahad pointed out.
“We don’t have any choice.” Arthur sighed. Galahad was always the voice of reason, the drop of reality in the middle of any plans, the orator of the obvious. “Lock down the hold,” Arthur commanded before he strode to the bow to watch dusk creep across the sky.
“Tighten the rigging, and let’s get on with it,” Gawain growled, his good patience had gone with the daylight. At least the moon was full enough to light their way. Bors paced the main deck, muttering to himself, and then bolted below to hover over the engine.
In secret, a haphazard quay and landing pad of sorts had been constructed atop the Dover Castle Keep. When anyone asked, Cousin Henry called it his heavenly body observatory, never allowing visitors in his haven, out of respect for Arthur’s attempt to keep news of the flying machines from spreading.
They all knew they could only keep their airships a secret for so long, rumors already burned through the countryside, spurred on by test flights and trips to Paris, but Camelot manufacturing intended to debut a magnificent fleet of them at the first annual airship races later in the year. Each of the knights of Arthur’s round table would be gifted their own ship. So far, the Templars were the only others to attempt manufacturing dirigibles.
Tales of the Once and Future King Page 14
