Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  It was the hilt of a sword. A magnificent sword made of gold and jewels and magic. A king's sword.

  "I'm coming, Hal," he said softly.

  Holding his breath, he reached into the fissure of the rock and grasped the golden hilt with both hands. He felt its power, a wild, singing energy that leaped from the metal into his body. It felt almost like the cup, strong and unearthly, pouring its magic into him; but this was infinitely more mighty than the cup. It was Excalibur, Arthur knew, free at last in the hands of its rightful master.

  With a cry that began in the deepest part of his soul, he lifted the sword from the stone. And, as if relieved to be giving up its ancient treasure, the rock cleaved away in two halves.

  Slowly the boy raised the gleaming silver blade.

  Hal stood, wavering, in the midst of the three horsemen. Saladin's two henchmen watched as their master reached into a scabbard fastened to his saddle and drew out a long double-bladed dagger. A knife for skinning game. His horse took another measured step forward toward Hal.

  It was all over now, Hal knew. He had no strength left to fight with. He had lost again; now he would be peeled like some small animal before finally being left to find his shameful sanctuary in death.

  "Come on, finish it," he gasped through his blood-filled mouth.

  But Saladin did not approach. He seemed to be frozen atop his mount, looking past Hal down the meadow to the stones where Arthur was. He turned the stallion away from the dying man and faced the boy across the field. The other men, confused, reined in their horses as well.

  Seeing a faint chance, Hal tried a last blind charge toward the horsemen, but it was useless. Before he reached them, he stumbled and fell.

  When he hit the ground, the scimitar's blade jarred loose from his hands. His thumbs hung down from his fingers like two strips of meat. His head bounced against the dew-covered grass. He rolled onto his side, staring hazily back toward the pile of stones and the boy he had failed to save from death.

  And then he saw it, too: Arthur standing tall, holding in his hand the great sword of ages.

  He forgot Saladin and his horsemen, still as statues on the meadow. He forgot the blood that was pouring from his own neck, and the useless objects that had once been his hands, and the pain that burned through his body like a living thing. He forgot that he was about to die.

  "My king," he whispered.

  For a moment the field was utterly silent. Not a whisper of breeze, not the chirping of a single insect. It was the silence of time turning backward. And then, ringing across the rolling hills came Arthur's command, rough with tears and pain and loss:

  "To arms! Your king calls you to arms!"

  The sound lingered in the air, echoing, echoing . . . Then, faintly, it was joined by another sound, the surging thunder of hoofbeats, as before them all a great castle of stone began to materialize out of the air.

  Camelot was being reborn.

  It seemed to be made of mist at first, the walls and turrets, the vaulting keep that reached to the stars. But as the men in the meadow watched, they saw that it was a solid thing, as real as their own flesh. Banners flew from the ramparts. Trumpets sounded the call to arms.

  From behind the high wall, the sound of hoofbeats grew louder until, with a piercing squeal of metal against metal, the great drawbridge descended and the knights poured out, hundreds of them, dressed in shining chain mail, led by eleven fierce men riding horses in full battle armor bearing the red dragon of their king, once and forever, Arthur of England.

  "Attaboy, kid," Hal said. And then his head was so heavy that he had to let it drop. The wet grass felt cool and welcome.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Saladin's two remaining lackeys fled, screaming, as the castle of Camelot rose out of the predawn mist, spewing forth an army of battle-ready warriors like a river of silver. The river flowed after them into the woods. All but the first eleven, the king's guard. These stopped where the tall Saracen waited astride his stallion and surrounded him.

  Saladin folded his arms and stared at each of the knights in turn. "Ghosts," he spat.

  Laughing, a big dark-haired knight knocked him off his horse with the side of his sword. Another, a grizzled old veteran, looped a rope around him and dragged him toward Arthur, who had run to kneel beside Hal. Within minutes, the others returned with the mangled bodies of Saladin's men. Then together, they all dismounted and fell on one knee to pay homage to the boy king.

  They filled half the meadow, the kneeling knights in armor. Hal propped himself up on one elbow to behold the sight. "They came," he whispered. "They came for you."

  Arthur bent over him, sobbing. "Don't die, Hal. Please don't die."

  "Might have to." He smiled weakly. "Hey, it's all right. I did what I could. Now it's up to you."

  "No! Hal, no, don't leave me! Hal . . ."

  His voice was so far away. Hal wanted to answer him, comfort him, somehow. He wanted to tell Arthur that he would be just fine without him, as fine a man as had ever been. But then, the boy would find that out for himself one day.

  Hal did not regret dying. Like the lost knights, he too had waited a thousand years to find his king. Now he had found him. There would be no more demons hiding in his nightmares, no more fear. It was a good end, better than he had ever expected.

  He closed his eyes and sank back, drifting. The Saracen Knight once again lifted the chalice from his hands. Once again the sword sang through the air, his blood flowed, he fell dying.

  Oh, yes. The past was immutable and eternal. A man could not change a moment of it. The only thing in his power was the choice to forgive himself.

  For you, my king.

  And for me.

  And Galahad, the loyal knight who had journeyed so far, smiled and made his peace with death.

  In the village of Wilson-on-Hamble, many were already awake. Some had stayed up the whole night. Others had set their clocks to arise just before dawn. It was St. John's Eve, and all waited to hear the sounds of King Arthur's ghost knights scouring the countryside looking for their fallen sovereign.

  There were many among them who called it a hallucination or just a natural phenomenon, some curious but natural auditory trick. But just the same, they expected to hear the riders again, as they did every year.

  They were not disappointed. This time the hoofbeats seemed louder, more numerous than at any time they could remember. The town, every street and alley and walking path in it, resounded with the hollow beats. Every field and meadow and forest copse echoed with the roar of the ghostly cavalry.

  Then, surprisingly, as quickly as the sound had come, it faded.

  The villagers closed their eyes and went back to sleep, perhaps to dream of days when there were knights and warrior kings, when a world of justice and peace was struggling to be born.

  But that world, each knew, existed only in dreams.

  Yet in a rolling rock-strewn meadow, separated from the town by a few miles and sixteen centuries, one knight found that death refused to attend him.

  The deep, still calm that had been falling upon Hal like snow stopped suddenly, replaced by a warm buzzing feeling.

  Warm . . . Hot, burning hot Oh Jesus, am I in Hell? jumpy, fiery, red-embered hot.

  He did not will it, but he felt his eyes opening. Kneeling beside him was Merlin, dressed in his blue wizard's robes. In his hands he held the cup. He pressed it against Hal's cheek.

  Hal felt the blood that had filled his mouth to choking start to dry up. He felt a line of healing fire tracing over the wounds that Saladin's blade had made.

  Slowly he raised his hands to his eyes. The cuts that had almost severed his thumbs were gone. His fingers had healed completely, as if the wounds had never been inflicted. There was only the memory of pain, and that was dispelled by the sight of Arthur's face, smudged and weary, smiling radiantly down at him.

  He sat up and grinned at Merlin. "Took you long enough," he said.

  "I told you," the wizard ans
wered, bugging out his eyes in annoyance. "I couldn't get out until the king himself called me."

  "Arthur called you plenty of times."

  "Not as the king." He looked at the boy. "First, you had to believe." The old man breathed deeply. He looked back at the castle with pride. "You've brought it all back, Arthur. You and your brave rock-headed friend."

  Arthur threw his arms around Hal, who laughed and then extricated himself from the boy's grip. "All right, that's enough small talk," he said. "See to your men." He gestured toward the field of kneeling knights. "And Dracula here."

  Saladin looked up at them from his position as a captive on the ground. His eyes were murderous. "Go haunt a house," Hal said.

  "He's wounded. Take care of him," Arthur commanded the knights who were nearest to the prisoner.

  The big dark-haired knight tore off part of his tunic, but when he approached, Saladin spat at him. The knight drew back, reaching for his sword.

  "No, Launcelot," Arthur said, holding out his arm.

  Launcelot, Hal thought. The boy had actually spoken to him. For the first time, Hal fully realized that these were not ghosts, not the frozen, dappled images he had seen in the dream castle where Merlin had outlined the task before him, but real men, as alive as he was. Not five feet away from him stood the great Launcelot himself, sweating and breathing hard, his face flushed with fury at a sullen prisoner.

  Without thinking, Hal reached out to touch the knight; then he caught himself, and withdrew his hand.

  Launcelot caught the movement, and the angry features of his own face softened into a smile.

  "Rise, Saladin," Arthur said.

  The tall man lurched to his feet, his hands bound behind him, his black leg wrappings wet with the blood from his wound.

  "Kill your enemies," the boy said softly. "Do you remember when you told me that? 'Humiliate them. Degrade them. Make an example of them for others.'"

  Saladin's black gaze wavered for a moment, then settled back levelly to meet Arthur's. "I remember," he said.

  "You asked me if I wanted to kill you. I couldn't answer you then. Now I can.”

  The dark eyes blinked lazily.

  "Your life has been a curse, Saladin. I figured that out during the time I spent alone in that room. I was lonely and scared all the time, but I knew there were places where I wouldn't be lonely or scared, places where people loved me and wanted me around. All I had to do was get to them. But there aren't any places like that for you, are there?" His forehead furrowed. "In the whole world, in all the time you've lived, there hasn't been anyplace where you belonged."

  Saladin's mouth turned down bitterly. "You are a child. Those matters are of no importance to me."

  Arthur nodded. "That's the trouble, I think. Nothing is important to you. For a long, long time, you haven't had any reason to live at all." He turned to Launcelot. "Untie him."

  As the big knight loosened the ropes around Saladin's wrists, Arthur walked slowly over to Merlin and took the cup in his own hands. "I'm going to give you a gift," he said quietly.

  Saladin's voice trembled with incredulity. "The cup," he whispered, his fingers twitching.

  Merlin audibly sucked in his breath. "Arthur, don't be rash." He reached for the cup himself, but Arthur cut him off with a gesture.

  "No, not this," he said. "Although I was tempted. Another hundred centuries of a life like yours would be punishment enough for anyone. But I don't want to punish you."

  Launcelot and Gawain looked at one another indignantly.

  "That's right," Arthur said, frowning, directing his remarks to his own men. "If you were given the chance to live forever, there isn't one of you who wouldn't turn out as twisted as he is."

  He turned back to Saladin. "My gift to you is a life without the cup. A real life, as painful and precious as everyone else's." His eyes bore into those of his enemy. "Accept that life, Saladin. Learn what it means to be alive."

  Saladin sneered. "And so, out of the kindness of your heart, you'll keep the cup yourself," he said. "Your generosity is touching."

  Arthur didn't answer.

  "You won't hide it from me forever, you know."

  The boy smiled. "You aren't going to live forever," he said.

  The tall man turned his back on him. Slowly, as if he were walking in a procession, he made his way through the assembled knights, who cleared a path for him.

  Hal sighed with relief. Saladin was still Saladin, and Hal sincerely hoped he would never see him again, but the boy—the king, in his wisdom—had been right about one thing: Now, at least, Saladin wasn't going to live forever.

  And Arthur was.

  Then, as sudden as the bite of an adder, Saladin whirled around in his tracks near the rugged old knight named Gawain and clubbed him on the side of his head with both hands. Gawain tried to fight him off, but Saladin wrenched away the man's sword in the space of a heartbeat.

  "Arthur! Look out!" Hal shouted.

  Smoothly, without an instant's hesitation, Saladin swung the sword overhead and brought it sighing down toward Arthur.

  Hal dived on top of the boy, knocking him out of the way of the blow. The metal cup rolled out of Arthur's hand. Saladin snatched at it, but Hal shot out his leg to trip the tall man.

  Saladin fell, and Hal jumped on top of him. They struggled, rolling atop one another as the king's knights stood by watching helplessly, unable to strike at one without injuring the other.

  Finally Saladin threw Hal off. Immediately the king's men surrounded him, their weapons drawn.

  Saladin held up his bare hand. "Give him a sword," he commanded, his eyes fixed on Hal. "If I must die, I wish to die honorably. I challenge the king's champion to single combat."

  The knights murmured among themselves. Single combat. Despite his wickedness, the Saracen had offered an honorable settlement. One man against another. It was acceptable.

  Some of the men nodded in agreement. Even Gawain, whose sword was in Saladin's hand, reluctantly withdrew from the circle surrounding the tall foreign knight.

  "Don't allow it, Arthur," Merlin warned. "Saladin attacked you openly, after you granted him his freedom. Have your men execute the black-hearted devil now."

  Arthur looked, frightened, toward Hal. The Round Table knights had all moved away from Saladin, leaving room for two men to engage in battle alone.

  Merlin's voice was shrill. "Your friend does not know how to handle a sword!" he shouted. "If you permit him to fight that monster, you might as well kill him yourself!"

  Hal, too, saw the knights. They were watching Arthur as well, but the expressions on their faces were quite different from Merlin's. They were looking to their king to uphold their honor. For eleven knights in armor to attack a single man, regardless of the circumstances, would be a mockery of justice. And justice was what Arthur had stood for, back in the days when injustice was the rule.

  That, Hal understood at last, was what had kept the legend of the once and future king alive. Not charisma, not victory, but justice had been the shining light that Arthur brought to the darkness of the world.

  "Give me a sword," Hal said.

  Quickly Launcelot passed over his great broadsword. It was heavy, heavier than Hal had ever imagined. He tried to swing it with one hand, the way he had seen actors in movies handle them. It wobbled wildly.

  Saladin smiled.

  The knights exchanged glances.

  Merlin pleaded once more. "Arthur, he can't—"

  "Stay out of this!" Hal snapped. He spoke to the wizard, but he shot a furious look at Arthur, too, and the boy responded with silence. Hal tried to steady the sword.

  At last Launcelot broke away from the rest of the knights and stood behind Hal. Gently, the big man placed Hal's right hand near the base of the hilt, and his left hand near the pommel.

  Hal felt humiliated. Merlin's words burned in his ears. Hal knew less than nothing about fighting with such a weapon. He would be slaughtered in minutes by a man of Saladin's skill.
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  Saladin had planned it that way, of course. He had wanted Hal's death to be a joke, as most of his life had been. Whatever happened to Saladin afterward, he would have this one final triumph to savor.

  Without exchanging a word, Launcelot seemed to feel Hal's anguish. He placed his hand on Hal's shoulder, and when Hal looked into the clear blue eyes filled with compassion, he understood that his death would not be a joke to this man.

  He raised the big sword with both hands. It was a signal. Launcelot stepped back, leaving Hal alone in the clearing with his executioner. Then slowly, lowering his head in a mocking salute, Saladin advanced.

  The first parries were deliberate and slow. Saladin meant to show a duel, not a murder. As in the games of chess he had once played with the doctor in the sanitarium, he allowed his opponent to feel that he might have a chance of winning. It drew out the endgame. It made the play more interesting.

  Once, twice: Lazy strokes. The American responded in a comical frenzy, crashing the huge sword in front of him as if it were a bludgeon. Hal's eyes were wild and panic-stricken, his muscles quivering with tension. At this rate, he would be exhausted in no time at all.

  Saladin would make a game of this one, tease him, make him dance. The knights would not interfere. Single combat was a cornerstone of their quaint code. And later, after the American was dead, when Saladin once again held the boy at the point of his sword, they would trade the cup for the king's life, then permit Saladin to go free. That, too, was what the chivalrous fools considered to be noble behavior.

  Yes, Hal. Try to fight me.

  Don't want to make it a joke, I owe that much to Arthur. My life for the King's honor . . . Arthur, for you . . .

  Saladin half-closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He was listening to the man's pathetic mind now.

  The American knew he was going to die.

  Oh, yes, Hal. Yes, you will.

  He could almost smell the coward's blood.

  He moved in closer, the sword moving effortlessly, swinging like a pendulum, higher, higher.