Suddenly a mounted warrior sprang out of nowhere in front of the guards, a stout young man waving a fabulous sword. Then there were others, many others, all alike, brandishing identical swords. Alarmed, the soldiers pulled out their own weapons.
The young warriors laughed, sun glinting off their spectacles. Eerily they laughed as one, and as one, they turned and rode on ahead, surrounding the Queen and her runaway mount.
Now at the feet of the pursuers, warhounds appeared, dozens of them, all hideous. With two heads each, they snapped and snarled, and the guards' horses plunged in terror.
Surrounded by unearthly dogs and warriors, the Queen's horse continued its mad flight behind enemy lines. Closer and closer they drew to the gold and black banner of Arthur Pendragon.
The battle slowly faltered. “They've captured Margaret!” came the word. “Arthur's taken the Queen!” Fighting slowed under a weight of confusion, and in places, the Scottish line wavered and broke.
On the hillside, Queen Margaret had given up trying to control her horse or turn it back from its insane flight. She cared now only to stay on with dignity, but that had already been shaken by the sudden appearance of the strange identical warriors and their horrid two-headed hounds. Surrounded, she could scarcely see where this mad charge was taking her. Then her eye caught a flutter of black blazoned with a snarling gold dragon.
Suddenly the host around her shimmered and shrank into one boy and a single grotesque dog. At her other side rode two more warriors. No, these two were hardly more than children, a wispy-haired girl and a pale, scrawny boy. Confusion and indignation threatened to choke her. Then she looked ahead.
A tall, fair man sat astride a stallion as large as her own. He took off his helmet, and golden hair glinted in the pale sun. His smile was broad but bewildered. “Your Majesty, to what do I owe this honor?”
She stared at him in silent anger, but the thin boy beside her spoke up. “Her Majesty, Queen Margaret, is here to discuss a truce and an alliance.”
She turned savagely on the youth. “I'm here to do nothing of the sort!”
“Oh yes you are, Your Majesty,” the pale boy said softly. “What other choice have you?”
From his horse, Arthur smiled in comprehension and signaled to his trumpeter to sound a blast. As the echoes faded, the skirmishing below lessened.
The King stood in his stirrups, his voice booming over the battlefield. “I, Arthur Pendragon, hold Margaret, Queen of Scots, as my … guest. To assure her safety and yours, let all hostilities between our two forces cease.
“Your Majesty”—Arthur turned to the Queen as a babble of voices broke out below—“let us and some of our aides retire to a quieter spot. It seems we have a good deal to discuss.”
Margaret's face had turned an angry red, almost the shade of her hair. But her voice was like ice. “Am I to have aides at this ‘talk’ as well?”
“Certainly. Give us the names, and we will send for them.”
Arthur directed their horses up the hillside toward scattered rocky ruins. Behind them, Heather suddenly swayed in her saddle. Merlin quickly reached over and steadied her.
“Oh, Earl,” she said weakly. “I feel as if I've been flayed on the inside.”
“It will pass. But need I say you did splendidly?”
“You certainly did, Heather,” Welly chimed in. “But I almost forgot to look ferocious when those copies popped up, all looking as terrified as I did. There were an awful lot of me.”
Merlin chuckled. “And all played their parts beautifully. So did Rus. I threw him in at the last minute. It was a pretty good touch, though, wasn't it?”
“Brilliant,” Welly agreed. “One of him is enough for most folks. But let's catch up with the others.”
Higher on the slope, a small assembly was dismounting and finding seats among the weed-choked ruins. The red-haired Queen sat by herself, tall and erect, with a face as cold and stony as the wall on which she sat. However, when Heather, Welly, and Merlin rode up, her face kindled with anger.
“So now this travesty of a council is to be joined by children? I won't have it!”
“Madam,” Arthur said calmly, “these ‘children’ not only persuaded you to join us, they battled their way through great evil to fetch me out of Avalon. Their swords are Eldritch and their rights unquestioned.”
The Queen jumped angrily to her feet. “Avalon and Eldritch swords, bah! Maybe you can delude your simple hill folk with such fancies, but not me! I'll talk to you about armies and land—I have no choice. But I will not talk about fairy tales!”
Arthur took an angry breath, but Merlin held up his hand. Dismounting wearily, he faced the Queen. “Your Majesty, may I point out that a woman whose horse has been called from her by the power of magic and whose guard has been threatened by spectral warriors is hardly in a position to question fairy tales.”
The Queen's sputtering reply was cut short by the arrival of four of her lieutenants. Looking confused, angry, and worried, they reluctantly turned over their swords and joined their Queen.
The King nodded at the newcomers. “Thank you for joining us, gentlemen. Now, let us begin. We should have a neutral mediator, but as none is available, I suggest that Merlin begin the discussion. The idea for these talks was, I believe, his.”
Queen Margaret raised an eyebrow when the same skinny boy stood up. This was the fabled Merlin? Nonsense. Even in fairy tales he was an old graybeard. Still, there were all those phantom warriors.…
“Your Majesties”—Merlin bowed to each—“and nobles of Scotland and the North, this truce provides an opportunity to reevaluate our situation.” The Scottish generals snorted, but Merlin ignored them. “We have below us the fighting forces of all northern Britain. Between us we've achieved more unity than this island has seen in five hundred years. But if this battle continues, a chance for greater unity is shattered. Both armies are strong; there would be no easy victory.” This time generals on both sides snorted. “No matter who won, hatreds would last for generations, and the fighting forces of these lands would be devastated. Half, maybe more, of our warriors would die.”
“That's the hazard of war, boy,” one of the Scotsmen called out. Merlin could see grizzled veterans on his own side nod in agreement.
“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps Britain should remain a pack of barbaric states snarling and biting at each other. Perhaps we don't want the peace, prosperity, and unity these lands once knew. If so, we should continue this battle and let the carrion eaters claim victory.
“But even were that our goal, we would not enjoy it long. Because there is another form of unity alive in these islands, a unity of evil. You all know mutants have been crossing the diminished Channel from the Continent, but these are not aimless destroyers. They have found a leader, someone with power enough to turn them to her will. And her will is to conquer Britain, all of Britain, for herself.”
Uneasy muttering broke out in the assembly.
“Look at the start she has made. Five shires already are in her hands! And her armies number not only conscripts and foreign muties but also creatures from another world. Morgan is an enchantress.” Angry scoffing sounds. “This is no fairy tale! It is as real as the little magics emerging around your own lands.” Merlin looked around at the uneasy nods. “Magic is returning, and there is none who can wield it for greater evil than Morgan Le Fay.
“Every day that we fight among ourselves, she grows stronger. Every loss we suffer is one less obstacle for her. And what can stem her conquest of this divided island if we are busy licking our self-inflicted wounds?
“But if instead we unite, we could move south and spread our unity. The size of our combined forces would convince many to join rather than resist us. And when, in time, we faced the real enemy, we might hope for the strength to triumph.”
Merlin sat down to scattered cheers from both sides. A black-bearded Scotsman spoke up. “You are suggesting we unite our two armies, but under whose command? We're not buying
your claims that this golden puppy is High King of Britain.”
Several Cumbrians jumped up angrily. Merlin stood, raising his staff. “The command would be a joint one, the King of Cumbria and the Queen of Scotland sharing equally, along with a council of their choosing.”
The Scottish Queen now jumped to her feet. “If you are asking me to share command with this arrogant young play-actor …”
Arthur, purpling with rage, stood as well. “Madam, if you think I want to share anything with an uncouth, snarling fell-bitch like yourself—”
Merlin stomped his staff against the ground, producing a shower of purple sparks. “Shut up, Your Majesties! I am not asking that you like each other, only that you lead your armies away from self-destruction to possible victory. Surely both you youngsters are mature enough for that!”
“Well!” Margaret said indignantly. “You're hardly the one to talk, you nasty little beardless brat!”
Arthur laughed gustily. “Madam, that nasty little beardless brat is several thousand years your senior. But I admit, age hasn't made his meddling any easier to take—particularly when he's right.”
Arthur turned and jumped onto a wall. “All right. I accept the proposal.” He looked coldly at the Queen. “My army is as ready and anxious for battle as yours. But we are even more anxious for lasting victory. If that can best be found by uniting forces and moving south, then let us do so. I will share command with Scotland's queen, but I ask that our advisers do their utmost to keep us out of each other's way!”
The Queen rose with disdainful dignity. “I, too, accept the proposal. The forces of Scotland will gladly conquer any southlands laid before us. And if to do so I must accept joint command, I will. But on one point I agree with this pale upstart. Councillors be warned—the less we two have to do with each other, the better!”
Heated discussion began over the details of the alliance. Heather and Welly joined Merlin where he sat by himself, looking tired and depressed.
“What are you so down for?” Welly asked. “That was a stupendous speech. It really seemed to do the trick.”
Merlin smiled wanly. “A bit flowery, I'm afraid, but it worked. No, what worries me is that the ‘beardless brat’ line could rankle me so. Last time I was this age, it took me forever to grow a beard, and that drove me absolutely crazy. Now my body's doing the same thing again. You'd think I'd have the sense not to let it bother me. But it does! I guess it just shows that the age shifting was complete. I'm a teenager again, inside and out. What an ordeal!”
The following evening, the leadership of both armies joined for dinner. It began as an awkwardly stiff affair, but after the barley beer made several rounds, a semblance of camaraderie spread through the group. Arthur and Margaret sat on opposite sides of the fire sharing good-humored chatter with those around them but having nothing but glowers for each other.
After Scottish pipers had screeched for a while, Kyle launched nervously into a newborn song of his own. He had worked on it frantically all day, trying to make all participants in the recent battle sound equally dignified and brave. He finally avoided the problem of whom to glorify most by playing up the magic element instead.
Afterward, when less tuneful songs were being belted out by the diners, Heather slipped over to the harpist.
“Kyle, that song was terrific.” She smiled wryly. “But I couldn't help noticing how much you made use of the magic and all. I thought you hated it.”
“One can't hate magic any more than one can hate fire. But that doesn't mean I want nice people getting hurt by it.”
“If you're going to lecture—”
“I'm not. I'm a harper, and magic is a natural for songs and stories. But did you like the way the song showed you? ”
“I … well, it wasn't anything like me—a cool, magical heroine, ha! But you've told me often enough how an artist has to mold raw mud into something lovely.”
“Yes. But the hearers don't see the trick. If it's artfully done, they take it for truth. Soon they'll see you not as Heather McKenna but as that cool, magical heroine. They'll leave a wide space around you just as they do with Merlin. They'll be afraid if your hem brushes against them. Think, Heather, is that what you want? Because, slowly, that is what you are choosing.”
Heather paled and turned away. Kyle had jabbed into her deepest fears. She didn't want to make that choice, not yet. She needed time to think, to decide!
Just then, Otto bawled something and swayed drunk-enly to his feet. With relief, Heather turned toward the commotion.
“A toast!” he repeated. “To the alliance of King Arthur and Queen Margaret!”
A portly Scot jumped up as well. “Aye. An alliance started on a battlefield may end in a marriage bed!”
Otto laughed and swung his mug high. “Now that's diplomacy. I'll drink to that!”
“You shall not!” Margaret shrieked, and jumped up, flinging her mug into the fire. “None of you shall, or I march out of here tonight! I've had enough of my ‘advisers’ trying to marry me off to any princeling who doesn't fall off his horse. I am Queen. And I am not sharing my throne with any arrogant English madman. The next person who suggests I do gets my sword through his throat!”
Arthur was on his feet now, glaring across the fire at her and the whole assembly. “Save your sword for your own men, Queen. The next man of mine who so much as thinks of mating me with an uncouth wild woman will feel my own blade. Now, all of you, do this lady and I make ourselves clear on this point?”
The shocked mumbling was broken into by the sound of horsemen on the hillside above. Moments later, one of Arthur's guards rode up and, dismounting, hastily bowed to the King.
“Your Majesty, there's a man here with a message from the Duke of Cheshire. He's sought you in Keswick, Carlisle, and now here. Will you see him?”
“I will. Anything would be preferable to the insanity I've just been hearing.”
The guard motioned into the darkness. A spent horse stumbled forward, and a man dismounted and walked wearily toward the King. He bowed and looked up at Arthur with a moment's awe. Then, composing himself, he stammered, “You are Arthur Pendragon?”
“I am.”
“Then, sire, I have a most urgent message for you from His Grace, Geoffrey, Duke of Cheshire.”
“Deliver it, then. These are allies; we have no secrets.”
The young messenger straightened himself and unrolled the parchment clutched in his hand. “ ‘To Arthur Pendragon, High King of Cumbria and Carlisle, from Geoffrey, the third of that name, Duke of Cheshire.
“ ‘Sire, having heard much of your prowess, both in olden times and of late, and having heard that you seek alliances among the shires, let me extend the offer of such. We are in dire need. Chester, our chief city, has for weeks been laid siege to by the armies of Manchester. Our supplies grow short, but the enemy shows no sign of tiring. We are an ancient and proud people, but we would rather lay our allegiance at the feet of one known for his openness than have it wrested from us by the greedy hands of old enemies. In hopes that soon I may offer you my gratitude in person, I am yours, Geoffrey III, Duke of Cheshire.’”
“Thank you, young man,” Arthur said to the courier. “Someone fetch him food and drink.” He turned to the others. “What do you say, Your Majesty? We must try this alliance out somewhere.”
The Queen smiled coldly across the fire. “I say we march to Chester.”
Cheers broke out and cries of “To Chester, to Chester!” Quietly Arthur turned to Merlin. “I'd ask a prophecy if you'd give it, old wizard. But have you at least some feeling on this plan? Is it right that we march to Chester?”
Standing beside Merlin, Heather looked at her friend anxiously as his face creased with pain. His voice was low and strained. “It is right, and it is wrong. But it is the way you must go. I know nothing more.”
“Well, that's enough for me,” Arthur said, turning back to the others.
Merlin gazed at Heather, his eyes blank with angu
ish. “No, it is not enough!” he rasped. “I should be able to tell him more.”
She reached for his hand, but there was nothing comforting she could think to say. Above them in the dark, she felt the passage of a lone night bird. It soared on winds of cold foreboding. Fear and terrible emptiness slid beneath its wings. She shivered and clutched the wizard's hand tighter in her own.
THE ROAD TO WAR
When the armies marched south from the Wall, it was with Dragon and Lion banners fluttering in the lead. John Wesley had struck up a friendship with the young Scot who carried Margaret's standard, and the two rode close abreast.
The farther south they moved, the grimmer the landscape became. Heather was surprised at the desolation. Since only London had been bombed during the Devastation, she'd assumed that most old cities would not look greatly shattered. But with massive deaths from cold, radiation, and plague, their social and economic order had quickly collapsed. The few survivors had fled, and the once-great cities had fallen into ruins. They were inhabited now only by scavengers and bands of mutants.
Between these ruins were scattered farms and small settlements from which supplies were taken for the advancing army. But when their route took them past the hollow cities, an oppressive silence fell over the company, as though a cloud of dead dreams still hung about the ruins.
The roads they followed were straight and wide, but under the weeds, the pavement was cracked. Overpasses were collapsed, and tall metal lightposts sprawled beside the roads like dead giants. On every side, skeletons of buildings and smokestacks stood silhouetted against the dust-gray sky.
Of all those in the southward-marching army, the King's wizard seemed most deeply sunk in gloom. Whenever Heather tried to talk to him, he muttered something about roads cycling back and continued staring at the dead landscape.
By the time they crossed the Cheshire border, Merlin's tension was so apparent, no one rode anywhere near him. Even Heather and Welly were afraid to speak to him for fear he might shatter like a figure of glass. Instead they rode with Kyle or trotted forward to exchange words with John Wesley.
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