Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  But mostly the panic was in his throat. Whenever he tried to swallow, he gagged. The smoke was filling his nostrils and lungs, but when his body tried to expel it with a cough, the wad of fabric in his mouth worked its way further down his windpipe.

  Soon he could breathe only by staying as quiet as possible, immobile, with his neck stretched up into the densest part of the smoke. But still he coughed, and with each cough, the gag went deeper and deeper.

  He could feel his eyes bulging, the veins in his neck and temples about to burst. More than anything he longed to get the hateful balled-up rag out of his mouth. He pushed against it with his tongue until his jaw ached, but he could not dislodge it. And with every effort, he choked.

  The choking was the most frightening thing. After a while, the constant gagging caused his stomach to churn. If he vomited, he knew, he would die. So he tried to ignore the extreme signals his body was sending, tried to sit quietly, breathing the black air, but his body would not be fooled. This was fire, he was suffocating, and every cell of his organism knew it. Foul, vinegarish fluid shot up from his stomach into his nostrils, filling them. He screamed. The sound was only a tinny muffled whisper. Afterwards, he tried to fill his lungs again, but could not.

  There was no air now, none at all. Arthur felt his body stiffen and jerk. He tried to fight, but there was nothing he could do. The waves of panic crested, then began to subside, quickly, smoothly, rolling waves. An easy ride.

  Easy. Yes.

  He didn't bother to close his eyes. The smoke didn't hurt them anymore. His head fell back and he floated.

  Water, maybe.

  Easy ride.

  If he stayed high, there was the smoke. It got into the lungs and cut off the oxygen and stopped the heart.

  If he stayed low, there were the flames that tore at a man's flesh, piercing it like knifepoints.

  Hal chose the flames.

  He dropped to all fours on the landing before the last flight of stairs and scurried, like a crab, up the stairway. He could see only inches in front of him as he stumbled up the steps.

  He had almost reached the top when the explosion occurred.

  At first, he heard only the sound of glass breaking. The heat had caused the windows to blow out, one by one, like popcorn on a grand scale. Then there was a squealing, splintering crack and a boom like thunder as something came flying out of the darkness at him. He slid back down nearly the full flight of stairs on his belly as the object settled with a deafening crash.

  It was so large that it filled the entire stairwell. By feel, he determined that it was a door, two inches thick and solid. It had probably blown out of one of the top-floor rooms, hit the far wall, then caromed onto the stairs on the rebound. The first bounce had slowed its speed and power; otherwise he could not have moved in time to avoid it.

  Hal climbed on top of it and moved cautiously, feeling splinters jabbing into the palms of his hands and his knees. When he reached the top, he turned to his right and touched the wall. It was sizzling hot. He recoiled at first, then forced himself to move along it, feeling for an opening.

  He found it. Inside, because of the breeze between the broken window and the open doorway, the flames were even worse than those in the hallway, but the air was clearer. Clear enough to see the boy tied to a ladderback chair, his head thrown back, his eyes open, his body motionless.

  Hal moaned.

  You're the best, kid. The best there is.

  He froze where he stood. Slowly, as he watched, mindless and terrified, the boy's face contorted and elongated into an ugly mask. His limbs grew scales and claws. A tail formed, its razor-pointed end swishing lazily. The long snout spewed foul-smelling smoke. Its dark, mocking eyes danced with laughter.

  "Come get me, Hal," it said. "I've been waiting for you so long. So . . . long . . ."

  And then it laughed, the hideous, hollow laughter of a hundred sweat-soaked nights.

  Come on, Hal, you were the best the very best kid you always come too late and it's too late now because that's what you're best at THE VERY BEST!

  With a scream, Hal rushed toward the creature and embraced it, pulling out the swollen gag, tearing off the ropes, putting his mouth on it as he ran with it in his arms toward the open window.

  He kicked out the spiky shards of glass left in the frame and eased the still body onto the gable awning, dragging the rope behind him. Though they were outdoors, Hal could barely see for the smoke that streamed past them from the room.

  There was no heartbeat. Hal pressed down on the scaly chest five times, then delivered a puff of breath into the monster's mouth. Five more times. Another breath.

  "Breathe, Arthur," he begged. OK God, please let him live.

  Five more times.

  For you, my king.

  A gust of wind blew the column of black smoke pouring from the window away from them. With it flew the dragon scales, the claws, the pointed tail. They disappeared into the shimmering hot night like fine droplets of water.

  The creature was gone. Hal pressed his face against Arthur's chest. He could hear a heartbeat.

  For you . . .

  He sprawled the child out on the hot roof, flinging one arm across the small body to hold him in place, hanging on to the glass-splintered window frame with his other hand, giving the breath in his own lungs to Arthur again and again.

  "Please breathe," he whispered.

  Another puff.

  Again.

  Once more.

  And then the blue lips colored. A thin crease grew on Arthur's forehead, then deepened. He coughed, croupy, harsh. He gasped.

  "Arthur. Arthur, it's Hal. Come back."

  The boy's eyes opened. "Hal," he said, sounding strangled. He coughed again, then smiled.

  Hal smiled back.

  You're the bes . . .

  The mocking voice was faint, traveling away.

  kid . . .

  Disappearing, like the dragon-creature, like all his ghosts.

  Besssss

  The thinnest whisper, dispersing, leaving him forever.

  Gone.

  "What say we get out of here?" he asked softly.

  Arthur rubbed the soot from his eyes. "I'm ready when you are."

  Hal looked at him for a moment, then pulled him close and hugged him. He did not try to check the tears that fell into the boy's hair, salty, sooty tears of love and gratitude.

  "C'mon," he said. He looped the rope below Arthur's armpits, braced himself in the window frame, and slowly lowered the boy. When Arthur was safely on the ground, Hal tied the rope around the window frame and shinnied down himself.

  On the other side of the building, Saladin stood near the front entrance, his eyes fixed on the flaming specter of the house.

  "My lord, the fire is nearing the barn. The horses—"

  "Let them burn."

  He was listening for their screams.

  He needed to hear them with his own ears. This nobody and an arrogant child had taken his life from him. A life so carefully crafted, woven like a fine tapestry over millennia, gone in an instant. He would grow old now. He would feel sickness and pain. And one night, his bones complaining, he would lie down and never rise.

  For that, he would hear their screams as they died.

  "Sire, please. The two are surely dead from the smoke . . ."

  Saladin silenced him with an angry sweep of his hand.

  He was probably right. They were already dead.

  But why had it had to end this way?

  Two had come back through the ages to join him. Only two, on the endless, lonely journey through time.

  And he had killed them both.

  Was killing all there was left, the last twisted, tortured avenue in the maze of his singular life? He had never loved. He had never ached with passion or remorse. He had never known the kindness of a friend, except for one afternoon long ago, when an old man had shown him medicinal rocks.

  That had been his great mistake. He should never have
befriended the wizard. If he had not, in a moment of self-indulgent abandon, given away the secret of the cup by saving Merlin's worthless life, he himself would not be dying now.

  But in the end, he thought sadly, an afternoon's friendship was perhaps the only real pleasure he'd ever experienced. One afternoon, out of fifty centuries.

  He closed his eyes. He was getting soft. Thoughts of death did that to a man. They made one sentimental and ridiculous. They gave one regrets.

  I did not want to kill you, Arthur.

  I wanted a new life, a new order. A great man to lead the world. A king. A companion. A friend.

  I wanted Camelot.

  "Scream, damn you!" Saladin's voice rang out above the din of the fire. "Scream!"

  "Sire!"

  Saladin whirled on the man who had dared to interrupt his thoughts again, ready to strike him down. But the man only pointed to the far hills, toward the barn.

  Its doors were open. And on the hillside, beyond the leaping flames, were two riders on horseback, heading into the woods.

  Saladin clenched his teeth. "Bring my mount," he said.

  Hal leaned low over the mount, trying to keep pace with Arthur's headlong gallop.

  "Where'd you . . ."He winced as the horn of the saddle jabbed into his chest, " . . . learn to ride . . . like that?" he shouted.

  Arthur laughed. "I never rode before!"

  "What?"

  "I've never been on a horse!"

  "Could have fooled me," Hal muttered. The boy was a natural. He rode as if he'd spent his whole life on horseback.

  Like an ancient king, he thought.

  He looked back over his shoulder, back at the burning house down in the hollow. Three men were riding out of the barn. They were leading a fourth horse, Saladin's stallion, while its owner waited, his silhouette black against the orange flames.

  "They're coming after us," Hal said.

  "Yes. They would."

  "Maybe we ought to head into town. There are two cops, and—"

  Arthur shook his head. "They won't help."

  "Right. Well then, where are we going?"

  The boy turned his smudged, blistered face to him. It was not a child's face any longer. The pale eyes were measured and determined, the mouth set.

  "We're going home," he said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Arthur reined in his horse just short of the wall surrounding the castle ruins and dismounted.

  "I don't know if this is a good idea," Hal said, looking around at the featureless meadow. "They're going to spot us here."

  "I'm through hiding," Arthur said. "We're going to fight them."

  "Here? Are you kidding?" Hal spoke so loudly that his horse shied. He grabbed on wildly to the animal's mane to keep from falling off. "There's no cover. We don't even have weapons, for Pete's sake."

  "Merlin!" Arthur called.

  "What?"

  "Saladin said the wizard would come if I called him." He tried again. "Merlin!"

  Silence.

  "Merlin! Mr. Taliesin!"

  Faintly, they heard the sound of distant hoofbeats approaching.

  "Forget it, kid. I tried that, too. Wherever the old man is, he can't hear you." Hal thought he could feel his heart breaking. "There's no magic. We're alone here."

  They both turned toward the sound of the hoofbeats. Four horsemen emerged from the woods and were galloping across the open meadow toward them. Raised overhead, their scimitars gleamed in the moonlight.

  "Then we'll fight them alone," Arthur said quietly.

  Hal watched the horsemen come. Four of them, armed and battle-seasoned, against a barehanded man and a boy.

  "We'll lose," he said.

  "Maybe. But we'll fight, all the same."

  The boy's eyes seemed to be made of steel. Hal considered picking him up bodily and throwing him on one of the horses, but he knew that would do no good. Saladin and his men would catch up with them before long, and kill them like insects.

  Arthur was right. Better to fight and die.

  "No harm in trying," Hal said, trying to sound less pessimistic than he felt.

  He dismounted and slapped both animals away. Being on horseback would be no advantage to someone who couldn't ride. He eyed a big pile of boulders at the bottom of a hill. "Looks like that'll be our best bet," he said, pointing to it. "Pick up all the rocks you can. We may get lucky and hit one of those jerks between the eyes."

  In the dark. Right. And maybe we'll stab one through the heart with a hickory stick while we're at it.

  They scrambled for rocks as the horsemen came on. "Wait until they get close."

  "This is the rock that fell over," Arthur said. "The fake rock with the writing on it." He peered over the side to touch the long crack that ran up its length.

  "Get down." Hal shoved him roughly behind the boulder, then stood up and threw a heavy stone the size of a baseball as the horsemen thundered toward them.

  It hit one of the attackers in the shoulder just as he was about to close in for the kill. The force of the blow threw him backward, twisting, so that the blade swung down wildly. It missed Hal but struck the man-made boulder in front of Arthur so hard that the sword broke off at the hilt.

  As the horseman rode past, Hal watched the shiny blade fly into the air and then land almost at his feet. "Mother of God, will you look at that," he said, picking it up. It had been a piece of luck beyond imagining. He studied the broken steel crescent for a moment, then positioned it in his hand like a boomerang and let fly.

  It hit another of the horsemen square in the chest. With a high scream, the man tumbled off his horse. Hal let out a whoop.

  He watched Saladin's men turn back and gather around their leader, apparently discussing what strategy should be taken. There was no hurry about the situation. It was understood that they would cut down the brazen American. But they had not expected him to fight so boldly.

  The men grumbled, ignoring their fallen comrade who groaned and gasped on the ground beside the skittish hooves of their horses, the blood pulsing from the wound in his chest.

  "Come on, you creeps!" Hal yelled gleefully. He turned to Arthur. "Three to two. The odds are getting better all the time."

  "Hal, look at this," Arthur said. He had pulled a large chunk of mortar off the man-made rock. "The guy's sword broke it off. There's something inside."

  Imbedded in the crumbling mortar was a cylinder nearly ten inches long, metallic from the looks of it, and studded with polished stones that looked black in the moonlight.

  "What the hell is that?" Hal asked.

  Arthur only grunted in reply. He was pulling at the other side, trying to break off the remaining piece of mortar that held it in place. "Help me, Hal. There's a crack in back. We can break it off."

  Hal reached over and gave it a quick yank, thinking that the mortar would make a good weapon. It was big, but light enough to throw accurately. When it didn't give, he elbowed Arthur aside and braced the rock against his knees, pulling down with both hands.

  "Forget it. There isn't time for—"

  Just then the piece cracked off with a small cloud of dust. Hal hefted the chunk and crouched down as the horsemen began their second run. This time they split up and came at Hal and the boy from three different directions.

  "Hal, it's . . ."

  "Get down!"

  He threw the piece of mortar at the tall leader riding between the two others, but Saladin was too good a horseman. At the last instant before the rock would have struck, he veered his mount away. The mortar sailed past him, and he continued his charge.

  He was so close that Hal saw the man's ugly smile before he felt the blade. The first blow sliced Hal diagonally, from the right side of his chest up through his neck.

  Hal gasped, his eyes momentarily transfixed by the wound. The gush of his own blood was an amazing sight. It spurted from Hal's body like water from a sprinkler, pulsating with each heartbeat. Before he could even react to it, Saladin had reared his s
tallion, wheeled him around in a circle, and cut Hal again, this time a long vertical slice down the side of his right arm.

  Saladin brought his horse to a stop. He looked down at Hal. His eyebrows arched; the black eyes registered something like mirth. Then he struck again. The third blow ran from shoulder to shoulder.

  He wants me to bleed to death, Hal realized. Saladin had had every opportunity to make one deep, killing strike, but he had chosen instead to tease Hal, to make him dance with pain.

  Far off, somewhere beyond the shock that was overtaking him, he heard Arthur scream.

  Arthur! Somehow, he had to save Arthur.

  Hal forced himself to stay lucid a moment longer, long enough to see the giant curved blade of Saladin's scimitar strike at him for the fourth time. He waited until it was close, very close. Then he leaped up and grasped the blade with both hands.

  The pain coursed through him like a jolt of electricity. The blade was buried deep in his palms. Saladin tried to jerk it free, but Hal held fast.

  You're not getting this until you saw my goddamned hands off, he thought. Then, screaming with the pain, he wrested the blade out of Saladin's grip and lunged toward the towering horseman.

  The point of the sword dug into the tall man's leg, piercing it so deeply that the tip punctured the flesh of the horse beneath him.

  The animal reared. Saladin kicked it into a gallop, retreating down the meadow. And following them, the tip of the naked steel blade growing out of his bleeding hands, ran Hal, staggering like a beheaded chicken, screaming incoherently.

  "Hal!" Arthur called, terrified. But he knew Hal couldn't hear him now. Saladin had not fled. He had enticed Hal out onto the open field, away from the stones that had offered what little protection there was. Now he and his two remaining men were circling Hal, egging him to run after them, laughing at his uncontrolled dying gestures.

  In the moonlight, Arthur could see the drunken tracks of Hal's movements by the black streaks of his blood on the silvery grass. Tears ran down the boy's cheeks. Unconsciously he squeezed the object in his hand.

  Then, with a gasp, he saw it. The cylinder in the rock was made of gold. Blinking away his tears, he could make out the intricate carvings on either end of fine roped bands.