Sword & Mythos

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  I will not close my eyes. So, the walls of my cell shimmer, become clear as ice: a multi-faceted screen on which you play images of beauty and temptation.

  But Arthur’s cry banishes your glamor, shows you for what you are. Your raven locks, rustling in the summer breeze, are tentacles writhing in a dead pool. Your eyes, emerald as the lake from which Excalibur came, are cold, gray orbs of cosmic indifference. I see through you now, see you as you really are, for a human cry of anguish has broken the illusion.

  Just as I shall break my prison. You can no longer hold me, Nimue.

  Now you smile coldly, mocking me. I see something new in your eyes: your irises are gold and your pupils elongate, become the horizontal slits of a goat. The arrogance in your imagined triumph makes me smile. I will laugh as I break your glamor.

  For I now know your true nature. Now it is time for you to know mine — and the name of the master I serve.

  The darkness retreated, became an indistinct, angular form of broken limbs shrouded in black mail and plate armor. The blood was red and the serpent that formed the hideous mouth that uttered Guinevere’s words had gone.

  The rising sun shone on the returning knight. There was alarm in Bedevere’s eyes at the sight of his king’s deterioration but also evasiveness.

  “My Lord King,” he began, his words distant to Arthur’s ears. “What frightens you so?”

  Arthur’s heart, so close to stopping, now raced. The King tried to speak, but his words stumbled over a swollen, dried tongue. He could only point to the prone body of Mordred.

  “Drink, sire.” Bedevere dismounted and passed Arthur his waterskin. The liquid was ice cold, containing a faint taste of the sea, but the King drank greedily. He allowed Bedevere to cradle his head while the water refreshed him.

  “Do you not see, Bedevere? The serpent that caused the battle. It lives still. In my bastard son’s opened stomach …”

  Bedevere followed Arthur’s pointed finger. Nothing but flies stirred in the congealed morass of the usurper’s abdomen. He looked at Arthur quizzically, and then glanced away.

  Arthur hesitated. The serpent was gone, the vision of a grave-worm nothing more than a hallucination brought about by the approach of death. Yet, Bedevere’s expression reminded Arthur of his last command.

  “Excalibur,” he murmured and his voice hardened when Bedevere’s eyes refused to leave the ground. “When you cast it into the waters, what did you see?”

  The buzzing of feasting flies filled the silence. Finally, the knight looked up and answered.

  “I saw nothing, my liege, but wind and wave.”

  “Bedevere.” Arthur’s words were iron. “Return Excalibur to the water. Obey me this last time.”

  Bedevere frowned. “My lord, I cannot do this! Excalibur must not be lost. Surely, another man, another king — ”

  “Obey me, Bedevere. My time is at an end. The Old Ones who fashioned the sword will decide when the time is right to bequeath it to a new owner. We must trust in that. Its power, its magic, is too great to be wielded by one who is not chosen. For did not Merlin tell of Excalibur’s power to destroy even gods?”

  Arthur’s head lolled on his chest as Bedevere gently released him. He watched his knight’s reluctant departure through a tilted landscape. The feasting of the carrion crows and the egg-laying of the flies continued, the corruption of the Brotherhood of the Round Table uninterrupted, and Arthur sighed.

  “God hides his face on the battlefield.”

  This time, the words were his and were his last.

  In the name and by the authority of Yig, Lord of the Ages, Father of Serpents, I call upon Yog-Sothoth to open the Gate upon the way to the Dark Throne. Strengthen and protect me along the way, Yig, and banish she who calls herself Nimue, the Mother of Harlots, the Daughter of Lies, whose rightful name is Shub-Niggurath, from my presence.

  The walls shatter as easily as winter ice before a fireball. I hear her screams of rage as the prison falls about me, the ice crystals a multitude of jewels that capture the light unleashed from my incantation. They cartwheel and spin, like the stars that hold the secrets of the Old Ones.

  Shub-Niggurath’s cries are distant now, as the gulf between us increases. My eyesight is unharmed by the light from the portal’s opening. Instead of exhaustion from the sorcery I have unleashed, I feel revived.

  Renewed.

  It is urgency that powers me as well as exhilaration. It is little wonder the foul beast assumed the form of a Lady of the Lake and enchanted me to sleep forever.

  In my dreamless slumber, I was unable to see the shifting of the stars, their new alignment, and what horror it foretells for mankind. The Maidens of the Waterways must all be dead, if the dark gods have taken their form.

  All you needed was for the brightest star, the sun of Albion, to pass into oblivion. For him to relinquish the sword of power. Do you think I will allow that, Shub-Niggurath? Will I allow Arthur to grant Excalibur to the new Beasts of the Lake?

  I see your dread siblings now, polluting the Lake from which Arthur took the enchanted gift so many years ago. Its beauty and sanctity are gone, corrupted by the foul sisterhood that await the sword of power.

  Not a moment too soon! For I see a lone horseman, battle-weary and bloodstained, approach the pool. He lifts his sword … no, not his sword. The one sword, the sword of kings.

  I sense the stirring of the Deep Ones; they know their time to rise is here at last. The waters of the oceans churn and writhe, as the sleeper of R’lyeh stirs from his slumber, awoken as I surely have.

  But I will send Great Cthulhu back to his dreamless sleep. Mother Hydra and Father Dagon will not take ownership of the seas with the power Excalibur grants them. I will banish them, renew the Lake and restore its purity. I will ….

  I am on the shore, but something is amiss. Why do I crawl upon the ground, struggling to see above the reeds? I cannot part them, for I ….

  I have no arms.

  I call out to the knight to get his attention. I recognise the man: Bedevere. How he has grown, a true warrior. He holds Excalibur aloft, his mailed fingers caressing the crosspiece. There is no reluctance to cast the sword into the waters; there is a calm resolve upon his features. His arm goes back ….

  But my voice, so commanding and inspiring fear and respect in all Arthur’s knights, is gone. Nothing but a sibilant hiss escapes my lungs, and horror fills my heart.

  Almighty Yig! Lord of the Ages, and Father of Serpents! Has the power of the Dark Ones grown so, that you could only free me by casting me into the form of a serpent?

  I hear a dark, feminine chuckle, which sounds like the sing-song voice of the one who called herself Nimue ….

  I do not succumb to despair. I am aware of your blessing, Almighty Yig. With the viper’s body you have also granted me its speed and power.

  The side-winding movement is now as natural as breathing. The reeds part before my approach, and the moorhens and ducks fly from me. The knight looks in my direction, a frown on his face as he ponders the disturbance.

  The greave on his right ankle is dented, its fastenings loosened. The mail is holed around his ankle, and I can see bare flesh. My jaws extended, venom flowing through new vessels, I rear above the reeds, and I strike ….

  A glare of silver, tinted with luminous green, followed by bright red. It is a while before the pain registers; I see my severed body twist and writhe, neatly sliced in twain by the sword of power, splattering fresh blood into the marshes.

  My vision fades. The world tilts and I see Excalibur fly through the air, sunlight burnishing the blade into an arrow of purest silver. I see the hand arise from the Lake’s rippled waters, but no shimmering samite sleeves her arm. The three fingers of the hand are pale and sinuous, more like water serpents or tentacles than human appendages.

  Three times the cold-blooded talons of the Deep One brandish the sword of power. Triumphant, exultant, and then Excalibur slides from view, and into the depths to give fuel to the
fires of horror that will inevitably follow.

  Now all the gods of light must hide their faces. Arthur, forgive me. I have failed.

  Arthur awoke, brought back from unconsciousness by the slap of seawater on wooden gunwales. His head felt light, clear, and there was no heaviness or pain. He opened his eyes, and his vision filled with the billowing white sails of a seagoing vessel. A crack of fresh, salt-scented air, and the sail bellied, thrusting the barge from the narrow inlet and into the open sea.

  He pulled himself up on revived, energized arms and caressed the velvet covering of the couch he lay upon. It was far more comfortable than the makeshift rest Bedevere had made, but this saddened him. He knew the velvet was his kingly shroud.

  He turned to face his companions, three maidens clad in shimmering samite, their palms held aloft in benediction, piety. Veiled heads inclined; mute, faceless gestures of acknowledgement.

  Behind the Maidens of the Waterway, he saw Bedevere: a distant figure on the water’s edge, his armour shone once more in the bright sun. The last of the Knights of the Round Table stood with his head bowed and shoulders slumped, mourning his king’s departure. He raised his arm in a farewell salute and Arthur returned it with a bow of his head, content to know Bedevere had fulfilled his final command.

  But the knight was not alone. A figure, clad in armor that was as dark as Bedevere’s was golden, stood behind him. The sun shone on the figure’s abdomen, illuminated the parted flesh and the things that writhed within.

  They extended from their corpse-home, pale and sinuous, yet filled with an unwholesome energy. A power that strengthened their serpentine bodies made them elongate, thick as the strongest swordsman’s wrist, and pulse with the same dark life that fed the unearthly worm who had twice visited the battlefield.

  Its mother, Arthur realised with fresh horror. Morgana’s last gift to our son. Birthing new monstrosities in her own image, to which a screaming, writhing Bedevere succumbed.

  One of the giant worms found his mouth, forced his lips apart to widen entrance into a warm, new home. The crack of Bedevere’s breaking jaw echoed around the inlet and not even the waves stifled the sound.

  Arthur closed his eyes. God had indeed hidden his face from the battlefield and now, only the Dark Ones held sway.

  Sunlight dappled the green water, filling the smooth waves with emeralds. Beyond the western horizon, the sun dribbled red into the sea and a new light shone from the depths of the ocean.

  The light reminded the despairing Arthur of the glow Excalibur made when it soared through the air, a quicksilver circle of otherworldly power, a green-hued flash like a striking serpent.

  It reminded him of the sword of power’s watery home, and the guardians to whom he had ordered Excalibur be returned. He turned to face the three sisters of the barge.

  They lowered their veils. Horizontal, goat-like pupils blacker than night regarded him from golden irises and lipless mouths opened in imitation of the womb of Morderd’s belly.

  The serpents of their tongues writhed, extended, and welcomed Arthur to the afterlife.

  THE CALL OF THE

  DREAMING MOON

  BY THANA NIVEAU

  Ghostly plumes of smoke rose from the peaks of the mountains as Sunoyi climbed to reach them, losing her way among the thinning trees and unfamiliar spiny plants. At last, she came to an immense deep lake. It, too, was strange. It was wider than any lake she had ever seen and its waters boiled as if a great flame heated them from far beneath.

  Through the waves, she saw the darting silhouettes of terrible fish, their bodies huge and ungainly, as though the water was not their natural home. The creatures seemed to sense her nearness and she watched nervously as their movements began to slow. Soon they had stopped swimming entirely. The bulky shapes turned beneath the water and countless heads rose black and dripping above the surface, each with a gulping mouth that appeared to be trying to form words.

  Sunoyi stepped back, her flesh crawling at the sight. The eyes of the fish were cold and empty and she knew they could see every dark thing in the world. They could see deep inside her and they knew her thoughts, her fears. She stared, unable to look away. Her eyes burned for want of blinking, but she was transfixed. Soon, her vision began to darken, as though someone were pouring black paint into her eyes. And then she saw beyond the darkness. She stood now at the crest of the mountain, staring down with her new black eyes at the world below. The cold plateau was the gray of ashes and bones, the color of eyes when all sight has gone from them. And swarming across its pale expanse were strange animals, so many more creatures than the Great Spirit could have made. So many more trees and plants. And in the impossible distance, so many more mountains. Mountains so vast they might reach all the way to the Upper World. Or perhaps to an even higher world above it, one her tribe knew nothing of.

  In the center of the dead plateau, one creature stood apart from the others. At first it seemed human and she took it for a warrior of another tribe. But the unknown colors it wore could not be paint, for they seemed to pour from the body of the creature itself, staining the ground beneath it. Inhuman sounds escaped its mouth, a mouth far too wide for its thin face. As she watched, it unfolded great dusty wings like those of a moth and turned to look at her, waving a multitude of spiky, jointed legs. Its eyes were the most terrible things she had ever seen. They were of an even deeper black than those of the gulping fish, a swallowing, bottomless black that threatened to reduce her mind to dust with the horror of its emptiness.

  She trembled, wanting to run but unable to find the will. Her own eyes were burning with the sight, the visions becoming unbearable. In terror she clawed at her face, her fingers splitting and lengthening into vicious talons as she pierced the softness of her eyes. The pain was agony and she screamed. And then, as the fear-sickness spread through her mind, she began to laugh — a wild, hysterical and somehow liberating sound.

  She woke violently, with Tawodi shaking her and calling her name. For several moments, she glanced around blindly before realizing it had only been a dream. Gingerly, she pressed her fingertips to her eyelids, relieved to discover that her eyes were whole and uninjured.

  “What is it?” her husband asked with concern, gathering her in his arms.

  “It was terrible!” she gasped, but could think of no way to describe the awful visions. Worst of all was the terrifying sense of freedom she had felt at the end of the dream, when her mind had fully gone.

  The sound of running feet reached her, along with concerned voices. The whole tribe was soon clustered around her, demanding to know what she had seen. The elders seemed to know something she didn’t, as though it had been more than just a dream. At first she could only shake her head in bewilderment as she tried to remember, but gradually, the images began to return.

  “There was a lake,” she said. “A very long and deep lake with black fish. And I stood on the highest mountain. Below, there were ... other creatures. One of them watched me with eyes as black as forever.”

  Ta’li Ajina, the medicine man, looked uneasily at the others before turning back to her. “You have been to the Edge of the World, my child,” he said gravely. “You have seen forbidden sights.”

  Tawodi held his wife close, as though to shield her from what she had seen. “But Father, she has broken no law, done no wrong. Who has done this evil to her?”

  Ta’li Ajina shook his head sadly. “No one. This is not witchcraft. It is the will of the Dreaming Moon.” He clasped Sunoyi’s hands and looked deeply into her eyes. “He has chosen you, my child. The place in your dream is real. You must go there. You must see what they wish you to see.”

  She clung to Tawodi, frightened and uncertain. “But I felt lost and separated from the world. From myself.” She touched her forehead, indicating. “What if I can’t come back?”

  The old man’s face creased with sorrow. “It is the risk you must take. The Edge of the World calls you.”

  The next night, the moon rose high a
nd full, painting the village blue with its fantastic light. Crickets sang in the whispering grass. From somewhere up in the mountains, a golden panther screamed. The voice was so much like a woman’s and Sunoyi shuddered to hear it. She couldn’t help but wonder if her own screams would be heard tonight.The tribe had gathered to wish her well. They sang and danced round the crackling fire, but only Sunoyi was given the Black Drink. It would hasten her return to the dream. She drank, wincing at its bitter taste. Soon her body was contorted with pain and she fell to her knees, heaving and purging herself of the foul liquid. The magic poison it left behind in her body would protect her.

  In her trembling hands she clutched two small stones, given to her by the chief. Animals were painted on their smooth surfaces. One would give her the courage of Wahya, the wolf, the other the swiftness of Ahwi, the deer. As the sickness passed, her eyes grew heavy and the dancing feet around her began to blur and spin into multiple images of swirling color. The fire leapt higher, the sparks soaring like tiny birds set alight, and the beat of tribal drums became the beating of wings. She heard her husband’s voice, praying for her safe return. She felt his kiss and then all was darkness.

  She opened her eyes in cold silence. The fire had faded to glowing embers. The tribe lay sleeping all around it in deep pools of liquid shadow. Confused, she raised her head and clambered to her feet. As her eyes adjusted to the moonlit scene, she realized with horror that they were not asleep. They were dead. Her husband, the medicine man, the chief. All dead.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she lowered her head. Then she gave a little cry at what she saw at her feet. She knew the young woman well, had seen her many times before, reflected back at her in the clear waters of the pond and in her husband’s eyes. The totem stones lay beside Sunoyi’s silent body, released from her limp hands. She must be dead herself to be seeing her own body. Had the visions killed her?

  A piercing animal cry shook her out of her confusion and her thoughts cleared at once. What she was seeing was not the world of flesh and blood. She had returned to the dream.