Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

"I wouldn't know. Particularly with all the true rock around here."

  The first rays of dawn struck some boulders a few feet away. "Well, we'll be able to see it more clearly in a few minutes," Taliesin said.

  "Why did they call him the once and future king?" Arthur asked.

  The old man smiled. "Legend has it that the great King Arthur, for whom you or one of your ancestors was probably named, was destined by God to unite the world. But he failed, because he was killed before he could fulfill the prophecy. When he died, the story sprang up that the king would live again one day to finish his work."

  "But he never came back," Arthur said.

  "No. It's only a legend."

  At that moment, Hal, who had been leaning against the big man-made boulder, let out a sharp cry and toppled off the narrow edge of the supporting rock. In reaction, the great boulder tipped southward with a creak.

  "It's going to fall!" Arthur yelled.

  Hal sprang to his feet, but it was too late to stop it. The rock tumbled off and thudded onto the sloping ground, where it rolled with ever-increasing momentum toward the pile of sunlit boulders at the bottom of the small valley and then collided with them in a thunderous crash.

  The three of them watched, speechless, as a small cloud of dust rose into the patch of light.

  "I . . . I'm sorry," Hal managed at last.

  The old man's lips tightened into a thin line. "That inscription may have been six hundred years old," he said with deep annoyance. He worked his jaw. "Ah, might as well take a look at it. See if there's any of it left."

  Grimly they walked toward the fallen rock. The sunlight slashed across it in strips. "It's damaged," Taliesin said accusingly.

  Hal leaned over it. An enormous crack ran down the length of it, through the ancient inscription. "Maybe it can be glued or something," he said, feeling miserable. He touched it. A big slab of the mortar fell away.

  "For God's sake, man!" Taliesin barked.

  Hal jumped back. His fingers were covered with gray powder. "I didn't think it'd be so fragile."

  "It's medieval mortar that's been buried for centuries," Taliesin shouted. He touched the broken piece himself, then looked at his own fingers. "No doubt its only protection was the earth the student dug away."

  Hal straightened up. He cocked his head.

  "The only consolation is that it's of little historical significance." The old man was rattling on, though neither Hal nor Arthur were listening to him. "Except, of course, for the questions it raises about why it was placed here, of all—"

  "When's St. John's Day?" Hal asked suddenly.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "St. John's Day. Isn't that when the ghosts of the Round Table ride around the countryside?"

  "Oh, that. It's not for two more days yet. What made you ask?"

  "Listen."

  All three of them stood in silence as a distant rumble from the north grew louder.

  Taliesin cleared his throat. "As I said, there are several riding academies . . ."

  A rider shot out of the woods. He was followed by five others, all coming toward them at full gallop.

  The leader was a giant of a man, so tall that at first Hal thought he was standing in his stirrups. He was dressed strangely, in the finery of an ancient Persian prince, and carried a broad curved sword that blazed silver in the new sunlight.

  "Something tells me they're not from the local dude ranch," Hal said.

  He looked to Taliesin. The old man's face was frozen in horror.

  He said only one word.

  "Saladin!"

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hal wheeled toward the old man.

  "What?"

  "Protect the boy."

  "With what?"

  The old man grabbed the boy and pushed him toward the center of the castle ruins.

  "Stay inside!" he called as he ran back across the low piles of stones that might once have been castle walls.

  "Forget that!" Hal shouted. "Get Arthur into the woods! Go hide in the woods!"

  But the old man paid no attention to him as the horsemen drew nearer.

  Hal cast about. Once again, he had no weapon except the scattered stones on the ground. The riders were coming closer, their strange curved swords poised.

  "Tell me this isn't real," he muttered, frantically picking up an armful of stones.

  The cartoon riders bore down on him. Taking aim, Hal pelted the leader with two of the rocks, but he deflected them with his long sword arm. His expression never changed as he raised his weapon to strike.

  Hal dropped the remaining stones and fell to the ground, rolling out of the way of the singing blade.

  "Hal!" Arthur cried. Hal was struggling to stand up. He did not see the second rider coming straight for him, attempting to crush him beneath the pounding hooves of his horse.

  Arthur stood up inside the old fortification and hurled a rock the size of his fist at the rider. It struck him on the forehead, and he toppled off his horse. The rider got to his feet and staggered toward Arthur, his sword flashing. The boy took aim again, but missed. The fallen man came at him with a menacing grin on his face, tossing the sword to his left hand and pulling out a short dagger.

  "Hal . . ." the boy said softly, backing away. "Hal . . ."

  Hal leaped at him in a flying tackle, flattening the man. They rolled, fighting for the short knife, oblivious to the rider who had swooped around them in a big curve and was now riding toward them. His scimitar was drawn, and his gaze was directed at the boy.

  Taliesin saw the tall man galloping toward Arthur and shouted "No!"

  Hal's head shot up at the sound. The man struggling beneath him saw his opportunity and thrust upward with the knife, jamming it into Hal's shoulder. Hal jerked back with a cry of pain as the man with the knife scrambled on top of him.

  And still the rider galloped toward Arthur.

  Taliesin loped directly into the rider's path. "Give me the cup," he shouted over his shoulder.

  The boy blinked.

  "The cup!" the old man screamed.

  Deftly, Arthur unhooked the pouch from his belt and tossed it to Taliesin.

  The rider drew back his sword and let it fly downward.

  It split the old man's skull. A fountain of blood shot out from Taliesin's white hair as the old man's features seemed to crumble beneath the weight of the heavy blade. Arthur screamed.

  But even as his body fell, Taliesin's arms remained outstretched, reaching for the metal cup. He caught it, somehow, as his knees crashed to the ground and his bloody head smashed against the small stones at his feet.

  Everything seemed to happen in a split second: The approaching rider, the swinging sword, the old man suddenly standing in his path, the blade coming down to cleave Taliesin's skull, the flying metal cup, Arthur's terrible scream . . . And then, suddenly, a blinding flash on the exact spot where Taliesin had fallen.

  It was as if lightning had struck him. Dazzling white light filled the meadow for a moment before being replaced by a cloud of thick white smoke.

  When it cleared, the old man was gone.

  The horsemen looked uncertainly to their leader, who had come to a stop. The tall man's face betrayed nothing. It was as if all the figures on the meadow were frozen in a tableau.

  Arthur was the first to move. He leaped over the low wall and ran toward Hal, sobbing.

  His movement broke the tension. Whispering in a frightened voice to his gods, the man with the knife shrank away from Hal and slid onto his horse like water streaming upwards. Following him, the others regrouped around their leader.

  Blood streaming from his shoulder, Hal rose to a kneeling position. He held out his good arm to Arthur, but his eyes never left those of the tall horseman, the man Taliesin had called by name.

  Saladin. His name is Saladin.

  He paid no attention to his men. His gaze had only wavered for an instant toward the place where the old one had vanished. He had lived too long to be surprised by
even the strongest magic.

  He sat perfectly erect, his eyes resting intently on the small red-haired boy.

  "It is he," Saladin whispered.

  For the first time since his arrival on the meadow, he showed a trace of expression. His lips curved into what might have been a smile. Then, almost lazily, he charged at full speed toward the boy.

  Hal struggled to his feet. Desperately, he saw how close the swordsman was to Arthur and surged forward.

  "No!" he called out hoarsely.

  Saladin paid him no attention. Bending low in his saddle, he scooped the boy up in his long arms.

  "Hal . . . Hal!" Arthur cried as the giant horseman beckoned to the others. Hal saw Arthur implore him with one outstretched hand while the rider turned expertly.

  Saladin's eyes met Hal's. For the briefest moment, with a look of mocking amusement in his eyes, the horseman acknowledged him with a nod.

  Then, in a precision maneuver, the horsemen all wheeled away from the ruins.

  "Come back, you bastards!" Hal screamed. He ran after them, but before he was even halfway across the meadow, they had disappeared into the woods.

  Hal dropped to his knees.

  He had failed. He stared vacantly out at the open field, remembering the look of terror in the boy's eyes as the tall horseman carried him away.

  He felt so numb that he did not notice that the birds had stopped singing. He did not see the shadow that rose beyond him, reaching almost to the distant line of trees. He remained staring fixedly at the ground until he heard the music.

  Slowly, then, he looked over his shoulder toward the castle ruins, and gasped.

  The ruins were gone. Enveloped in mist stood a castle made of rock and timber, with ramparts and parapets, and on its great towering keep fluttered a flag bearing a red dragon.

  His mouth agape, his throat parched with fear, Hal stood up and walked slowly, warily, toward the apparition.

  The music was the sound of a lute, coming from inside. There was laughter behind it, and the barking of dogs.

  At the top of a flight of stone steps, a huge wooden door stood open. Although he wanted to run away, knew it would be best to run, he could not. Not from that door. He climbed the steps and walked through the giant entranceway.

  He blinked at the scene within. As if a tapestry had come to life, the huge drafty hall was filled with boisterous people from another world: Bearded men wearing tunics of leather and rough cloth and women in long shifts covered by toga-like gowns, pulled in at the waist by wide jeweled belts. They wore their hair long, to their waists, or twisted into strange configurations of braids. They were all seated at long wooden tables laden with platters of meat and tankards of drink. Around them milled the servants in their dirty aprons along with dozens of dogs fighting over scraps of food.

  No one looked at Hal when he entered. It was as if he had stepped into some ancient painting in which the subjects carried on their fictional lives while he looked on, as detached and invisible as the eyes of the artist.

  But of course, he thought. That's what it is. None of these people are real.

  A rib-skinny mongrel dog trotted up to him, sniffed the air around Hal's feet, and moved on.

  Did he see me? Hal shook his head. Don't be a jerk. Of course the dog hadn't seen him. He wasn't really there. He was still in London, asleep on the big bed in the too-pretty hotel room, the dregs of a bottle of champagne wetting the sheets. This castle was his version of Oz, and like Dorothy, he was seeing it all inside his own mind.

  Hal was certain of this; yet to confirm it, he walked up purposefully to the table and placed his hand on the head of one of the diners. It went through both the man and the chair on which he was seated.

  "Ha!" Hal gloated. Air. They weren't real.

  But the smile faded from his face. What about the horsemen? What about the dark man on the bus?

  Were they apparitions too? Was the red-haired boy who had asked him for help? Was Arthur real? Was Emily Blessing or the British police?

  Am I real anymore?

  Maybe he wasn't still in bed, he thought. Maybe he was out there in the field somewhere, knocked unconscious against a rock, maybe dying with a blade in his chest . . .

  And maybe I'm already dead.

  He shivered. Dead? Was this place not Oz, then, but some purgatory where Hal Woczniak was doomed to wander forever, alone among ghosts?

  "Hey!" he shouted. He could barely hear his own voice above the din from the vast room.

  "Somebody has to be able to hear me!" he screamed, running to the far side of the hall in a panic. "Get me out of here! Get me out!"

  Someone laughed. A low chuckle, but Hal could hear it.

  "Good heavens, man, get a grip on yourself. You haven't even tried the door."

  Hal stopped suddenly, squinting through the sweat running in his eyes. Someone was walking down a curving stairwell. The bottom of his garment—a blue robe that reached to the floor—came into view.

  "You talking to me?" Hal asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  "Yes, Hal."

  The old man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Except for his costume, which was even stranger than the medieval clothing the other dream people wore—the blue robe was embroidered with silver moons and stars—he looked exactly the same as he had a few minutes ago out in the meadow.

  "Taliesin," Hal said.

  The old man inclined his head. "My name by birth. But here I am known as Merlin." He smiled and bowed with a graceful flourish. "Welcome to Camelot."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "Oh, God, I am dead," Hal said miserably.

  The old man laughed. "I assure you, Hal, you're very much alive."

  "But I'm with you."

  "And?"

  "And . . . well . . ." He made a gesture of discomfort.

  A look of recognition came into the Englishman's face. "Ah, yes. The blackguard with the scimitar. Well, set your mind at rest. I'm not dead, either."

  Hal regarded him for a long moment, then poked a finger into the old man's midsection.

  "Oof."

  Hal withdrew his hand quickly.

  "I don't mind, if you need the proof. Care to check my teeth?"

  Hal touched him again. "But . . . out there . . ."

  The old man smiled. "Who is to say what is illusion and what is not?"

  "But I saw it," Hal sputtered. "That joker split your head open. Saw it with my own eyes."

  "Pah," said the old man. "You saw it, so you believe it. You see this castle and you do not believe it. So much for both your eyesight and your logic. Come."

  He turned on his heel without waiting for an answer, crossed the great hall, and held open an arched wooden door decorated with a metal cross. Hal walked inside and froze.

  The room was bare of furniture except for a large round oaken table a dozen feet in diameter. Surrounding it were thirteen chairs. Only two seats were empty, yet the room was completely silent. The men who occupied it sat at their table dressed in battle regalia, tunics of chain mail and helmets of beaten metal, as still and erect as statues.

  "They look like . . ." Hal whispered. "But they couldn't be . . ."

  The door closed behind him. Without the din of the dining hall, the room seemed tomblike, cold and forbidding. Hal waited for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then, hesitantly, he stepped toward the immobile knights.

  He stood behind one, a big man, fair and blue eyed, with muscles that bulged beneath the linen shirt covering his arms.

  "Sir Bedivere," Hal said, remembering the stories that had come to life in his imagination as a child. "Arthur's master of Chivalry."

  Next to him, and just as lifeless, sat a young man with a boy's face, his light eyes filled with the passion of innocence. "Tristam," Hal whispered. A few chairs away sat a middle-aged man with ruddy, weather-beaten cheeks and intelligent eyes. He was dressed entirely in green.

  "Gawain?" He looked to the Englishman who now called himself Merlin. The old man nodded
.

  Hal walked a few paces, then stopped alongside a knight of almost shimmering presence. He was dark haired and handsome, and shaved his face in the Roman manner. His clothing was impeccable, and over his coat of mail he wore a heavy silver cross.

  "This must be Launcelot," Hal said. "He looks just like I thought he would." He reached out his hand to touch the man's broad shoulder, but there was nothing there. The knight was an illusion, insubstantial as air.

  "They are spirits," Merlin said quietly. "Like the castle. Only on special days do they approach the visible plane. Even then, not everyone can see them."

  "But I can."

  "Yes. I've arranged that."

  "By coming into my dream."

  The old man colored. "Damn it, man, this is not a dream! How many times do I have to tell you?" His white moustache worked up and down agitatedly. "I wish it were. I've had just about all I can bear of this eldritch old place. Dash it all, that's why I've brought you here."

  "Whoa," Hal said. "Go back a few light-years. You brought me here to get you out?"

  The old man sighed. "Exactly."

  "Are we trapped in here?"

  "We're not trapped. I am." He sighed. "I passed into this realm when I took the cup from Arthur. It was the only way to keep it from those thieves."

  "How about these guys?" Hal passed his hand through Sir Gawain.

  "Them?" Merlin rolled his eyes. "Well, of course they're confined here. What would they do in the outside world?"

  "I don't get it. They're not real, but you are."

  Merlin grunted.

  "But you're stuck in here, and I'm not."

  "Yes, yes," the wizard said impatiently.

  "And I saw you drop dead, but that doesn't mean anything."

  "Precisely."

  "And you're Merlin the Magician."

  "At your service."

  "I'm getting out of here." Hal headed for the door.

  "Come back this instant!" the old man snapped.

  "Then stop conning me!" Hal shouted. "I want to know what I'm doing here. What you're doing here. What the hell all this is?"

  "I'm getting to that," Merlin said with a placating gesture. "You're just going through a shock of disbelief. You'll have to get over that before we can talk reasonably."