One Knight Only

by Peter David

  “And since you were not injured in any way,” the High King said, smiling mirthlessly, “it granted you eternal life, did it?”

  “Yes. First, however, it unleashed a burst of power that near to blinded me. When I recovered my senses . . . the Grail was gone. I never was in its presence again . . .”

  “Until now?” inquired the High King.

  Percival nodded. “Until now. Until I came to this island.”

  There was a long silence then, and Percival knew that a good deal was being weighed and considered in that absence of conversation. The High King’s face was inscrutable. Percival found him a very difficult individual to comprehend. He seemed ruthlessly intelligent, even noble in his bearing. Yet the self-absorption, his very manner, indicated the attitude of one who was little more than a bully. The High King sat back upon his throne and drummed his fingers for a time on the armrests. It was clear that he was not waiting for Percival to speak, but instead was considering the situation.

  “So you will tell your liege lord of this place?” he asked finally. “Perhaps even endeavor to return?”

  Percival shrugged helplessly. “You are asking me questions that I can’t answer. That’s hardly fair. I’ve tried to be honest with you, Highness, out of respect to your . . . well, to whatever position it is that you seem to hold here.”

  The High King stared at him, as if Percival had suddenly acquired a second head. Clearly he took Percival’s words as some sort of challenge to his authority, which had not remotely been the former knight’s intention. “My position? ‘High King’ is sufficiently clear, is it not?” He took a step forward, tilting his head and saying, “You really have no idea, do you? No idea who I truly am?”

  Spreading wide his hands, Percival said, “Should I?”

  And the High King started to laugh.

  He laughed very loud, and very long, and it was one of the eeriest laughs that Percival had ever heard, for there was amusement and contempt and total self-confidence all mixed together in the one sound. “He asks if he should know me! He asks if he should!” the High King roared, as if it were the single funniest sentiment ever uttered by any human being, anywhere, in the history of the species.

  Finally, finally, he managed to regain control of himself, wiping away the tears that his unbridled mirth had generated. “Moor,” he said at last, “you have given me tremendous amusement. Truly, you have. And your honesty has been appreciated. Tell me, then . . . the name of your liege.”

  And there was some sort of severe warning in Percival’s head then, something that assured him that the last thing he wanted to do was inform the High King of who held Percival’s loyalties. “I . . . would prefer not, Highness,” he said.

  The High King cocked an eyebrow. “I do not recall,” said the High King slowly, “asking your preference on the subject. Tell me.”

  Percival knew at that point that his instincts were solid. “There is no reason for me to divulge that information, Highness. Therefore I shall not.”

  He had a sense that the High King was going to snap his temper completely. The titan of a man was on his feet, and his body was trembling with barely contained fury. But then, like a dark cloud dissipated by an errant wind, he visibly pushed away the anger that was upon him. Several deep breaths steadied him, and then he shrugged. It seemed an odd gesture coming from one so massive, those corded shoulders rising and falling in feigned disinterest. “It does not matter,” he said at last. “The point is . . . I knew you would be coming. It was foreseen. No matter what you say now . . . you will endeavor to leave this place with the Grail. It very likely does not matter, for even if you try to take the Grail, to harness its power, you will not succeed. The Grail is a harsh mistress. It is kept and maintained by force of will, as most harsh mistresses are, and you do not possess that sort of will in sufficient quantity. If you had, it never would have slipped through your fingers centuries ago. I have it now, and I will not chance that you could somehow result in my losing it. In order to avoid that, all I have to do . . . is make certain you do not leave. And you shall not. You will remain here, willingly or unwillingly, it is up to you.”

  “And if I do not do so willingly?” demanded Percival. “Then what? You shall kill me? Or try to?”

  The High King shook his head sadly, looking disappointed that Percival would even say such a thing. “Percival . . . I’ve no need to kill you. I can simply throw you into a cell and keep you there. We have one ready for you. It is underground. It is quite secure. And you will be able to be there for eternity. That, Percival,” and he actually sounded sad about it, “is where you will end your days . . . were they to actually end, which they will not.”

  Percival took several steps back, eyeing the High King cautiously. The High King, for his part, sat there and watched him, resting his head on his hands and obviously wondering what Percival was going to say or do next.

  And Percival turned and bolted.

  The move happened so quickly that it caught the High King off guard. Percival knew that in hand-to-hand combat he had no hope of defeating such a powerful-looking foe. The one thing he hoped he had going for him was pure speed. The High King looked too heavily muscled to be able to keep up with Percival when it came to sheer alacrity.

  There was a window just across the room, and Percival was already halfway there with no guard in sight and the High King still by his throne, not even having taken a single step after him. His arms and legs pumping, Percival covered half the remaining distance, and then the High King shouted one word:

  “Enkidu!”

  The name struck a horrifying cord in Percival’s head, and suddenly he knew who it was that truly faced him, and the impossibility of that barely had time to register when a blur of tawny gold streaked in from nowhere, claws making clacking noises on the floor, and there was a roar in his ears that threatened to blow his eardrums right out the side of his head, and then Percival went down and blackness befell him.

  “MY NAME IS Arnim Sandoval. All praise to our God in his glory.

  “The American President, Arthur Penn, has masterminded yet another attempt to destroy me. I have not accommodated him. I still live, and will outlive him and all his supporters and his cronies. I will continue to fight him for as long as America endeavors to present itself as the world’s lawkeeper. A country that claims to embrace diversity has shown itself, through president after president, to be intolerant of other peoples and their rights to conduct their own business as they see fit.

  “As much as they may claim otherwise, America will only accept a world where the American way of doing things is permitted. Their culture infests all other cultures. Governments are afraid to stand against them.

  “I strike from hiding. America, with its gunships and airplanes and missiles, call me coward because I hide, even though America’s founders fought their oppressors from hiding. I do not have gunships and airplanes and missiles. However, I have my brain . . . and the knowledge that I am right.

  “The American First Lady lies injured and will likely not recover. Those who believe her a tragic figure should consider her fortunate. She will not have to experience the continuing war of terror that will be conducted against her countrymen until such time that America agrees to total isolationism, to withdraw from the world stage, and to dissolve the imposed union upon the American states that bind it. Like any cancer, America must first be contained, and then made harmless.

  “America rattles its sabers and calls for war. I am prepared. I have heard these calls before. I have outlasted all those who call for my head. I shall outlast this Arthur Penn, because God is great and God smiles upon me.

  “God is great. There will be more attacks. You are warned.”

  CHAPTRE THE SEVENTH

  ARTHUR STORMED INTO the Oval Office, and it was everything he could do to resist drawing Excalibur and using it to cleave his desk in half.

  He had taken to wearing the great sword again, strapped to his back. It gave him some measure
of security . . . not for his physical well-being, but simply because it made him feel like a king again.

  Ron Cordoba came in directly behind him, firmly closed the door, and turned to face his commander in chief. “Well, that went well,” he said dourly.

  At first Arthur paid him no mind whatsoever, instead stalking the Oval Office as if he thought the individual who had singlehandedly turned his life into a living nightmare was hiding there. “Give me a dragon,” he snapped suddenly.

  “What?” Cordoba clearly had no clue what he was talking about.

  “A dragon!” railed Arthur. “Give me a nice, simple dragon tearing up the countryside. Give me an ogre, a Cyclops, any mythical beast. Give me a black knight, guarding a bridge and taking on all comers! Give me an army of foes, be they warriors or soldiers, of any caliber, any stripe. Then give me a horse to sit astride, Excalibur in my hand, and I will defeat them!” He slammed his fist repeatedly on the desk, emphasizing each word. “I . . . will . . . defeat them!”

  “Mr. President,” Ron started once more, trying to sound consoling.

  “Two administrations, Ron!” he fairly bellowed. “Two previous administrations have been searching for this little bastard! Two previous administrations consider Sandoval the third rail of global security! They go after him, they don’t find him, they look like fools, and they’re voted out of office! You said it yourself during the campaign: Arnim Sandoval is where presidents go to die. Yet I took him on.”

  “You took him on, yes.”

  “Against your advice.”

  “Four square against it,” Ron agreed. “The thing to remember—”

  Arthur was standing at the desk, holding a perfectly sculpted glass globe that had been given to him as a gift by the President of France. And suddenly, seized with a fit of fury, his arm snapped back and he threw the globe with all the strength he could muster. It sailed across the room, smashed into the far wall, and shattered into a hundred pieces.

  The sound brought the Secret Service in a heartbeat, pouring in through the door, three men reaching into their jackets in almost perfect unison as they went for their guns. But Arthur brought them up short with a sharp, “Everything is fine.” When they hesitated, still unsure of the situation, Arthur raised his voice and ordered them out. They went.

  “Shall I call maintenance, Mr. President?” asked Cordoba dryly.

  Arthur had already forgotten about the globe, so caught up was he in his fury. “I had to sit there just now, Ron, and listen to the joint chiefs of staff and the heads of our top intelligence agencies tell me that with all their manpower, all their covert ops, all their spy satellites, all the means and ways at their disposal that twenty-first century technology has provided them, they have managed to pinpoint his location to somewhere on the planet earth.”

  “We’re reasonably certain he’s not in the White House, sir, so that’s one less place.”

  Arthur lanced him through with a glare. “Are you endeavoring to be amusing, Ron? Trust me, this is most definitely not the time.”

  “Yes, sir,” was all Ron said. Then he took a step forward. “Sir, we’re hardly at a dead end.”

  “The shooter, Ron,” Arthur said levelly, “one John Smith, if you can believe that, was found dead. Suicide. He was a Sandoval acolyte, trained in his organization, but I was listening during the meeting. We’ve thus far run down ninety-seven leads on Mr. Smith, all of them taking us nowhere in pursuing Sandoval himself. And you’re standing there with the temerity to tell me that we’re not at a dead end.” Shoving a finger against his temple, he leaned in toward Ron and snarled, “One of his people put a bullet in my wife’s brain, Ron, and you’re standing here telling me we’re not at a dead end! What sort of chief of staff are you, anyway?”

  And Arthur was taken aback as Ron shouted in return, “I’m the one who’s here!” There was a fury in him such as Arthur had never seen, and Ron continued, “I’m here! I’m not an ages-old magician! I’m not a knight who drank from the cup of Christ! I’m not a reincarnation of royalty! I’m just a guy, okay? Just this guy, Ronald Cordoba, graduated Yale with a 3.9 GPA, with a doctorate in Political Theory, two ex-wives, a daughter I see maybe once a year, during which time I fight like hell to remain in some small way relevant to her life! And I’ve worked my ass off for you, and maybe I’ve never been a knight, and I’ve never slung a sword, but I know politics, I know this country, I know you, and I know that I deserve better than to be condescended to, shouted at, or treated like I’m mud that needs to be knocked off your shoes!” And then as an afterthought, he added, “Sir.”

  There was a deathly silence in the Oval Office then as Arthur regarded Cordoba for a long, thoughtful moment, and then very softly he said, “A doctorate, you say.”

  Ron looked confused for a moment, and then rallying, he said, “Yes.”

  “And you’ve never asked to be called ‘Doctor Cordoba.’ ”

  Letting out a long sigh, Cordoba stared at his president and said, “Always seemed a bit pretentious, Mr. President.”

  “Ron,” Arthur began, feeling that there were things that needed to be said. But he was interrupted by a knock at the door, the brisk three-rap knock that always accompanied the diminutive Mrs. Jenkins as she stuck her head in. “Sir . . . the Vice President.”

  “What about him?” asked Arthur tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “He’s here, sir.”

  Arthur and Ron exchanged glances. “Now this is a rare event,” noted Arthur. “Send him in, please.”

  Mrs. Jenkins stepped aside, and Terrance Stockwell entered. He strode forward, looked Arthur in the eye, and gripped his hand firmly. It had taken Arthur some time to become accustomed to such familiarities from people. He was far more used to people dropping to one knee, taking one hand reverently, and touching forehead to his knuckle. He had to say, he preferred that method of greeting quite a bit. Just one of the tragic losses from the old days.

  “Good evening, Terrance,” said Arthur.

  “Evening, Mr. President,” said Stockwell formally. Arthur gestured for Stockwell to sit, and he did so on one of the hard-backed chairs. It was dark blue; Gwen had picked out the upholstery. A minor, passing thought, but nevertheless it caused a slight jump in Arthur’s heart as he recalled it.

  “Thank you for the flowers, by the way,” Arthur told him, stepping behind the great desk and sitting in the large chair. “I made certain they were placed quite near Gwen’s bed, so that they’ll be one of the first things she’ll see when she awakens.”

  Stockwell shifted slightly, as if the chair was uncomfortable for him. “So . . . the doctor’s prognosis is that she will be waking up, then? That her condition is . . . reversible? May I ask what her latest condition might be?”

  “Terrance,” Arthur said patiently, “I would think something is seriously wrong with you if you did not have that information already at your fingertips. When was the last time you received a complete update as to Mrs. Penn’s condition?”

  “Five minutes ago,” admitted Stockwell.

  Arthur nodded once. “I suspected as much,” he said, leaning back and steepling his fingers. “It will very likely not surprise you to learn that her condition has not changed appreciably in the intervening five minutes. The fact is, Terrance, that although they were able to remove the bullet from her heart, the one in her brain is presently inoperable. There is probably brain damage as well. To all intents and purposes, my wife is very likely dead.”

  Arthur spoke with a surprisingly calm, even voice, so utterly devoid of upset that it prompted Stockwell to inquire, “Sir, if she’s being kept alive purely by machines—as I believe to be the case—why not simply . . . ?”

  “Pull the plug?” Arthur gave a brief, bitter smile. “Do not be deceived—either of you—by my relative calm. I am this way because I have to be. Inside I am screaming with fury, and the loudest of those screams tells me to maintain Gwen for as long as human ingenuity enables her to exist. I will not let
her go, gentlemen, only to have a brilliant breakthrough in brain surgery be developed a month later, so that I can stand here in the office of the most powerful man in the world—which just so happens to be me—spread my hands wide, and say, ‘Whoops.’ ”

  “Very well,” said Stockwell, and then his face went from tragic to extremely serious. “The question is . . . what are you going to do about it now?”

  “The President has already been briefed, Mr. Vice President,” Cordoba said firmly, “on all our military options.”

  “Then I suggest he take one or all of them,” suggested Stockwell. “We cannot afford to respond in half-measures on this, sir—”

  “No one is suggesting half-measures, Mr. Vice President,” said Cordoba. “The President is prepared to do what needs to be done.”

  “I should hope so,” Stockwell said firmly. “And the American people support what the President needs to do.”

  “Oh, is that a fact?” asked Arthur, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  The tone seemed to rankle Stockwell somewhat. “Yes, sir, that is indeed a fact, and one that you should be very pleased to hear.”

  “Believe it or not, Terrance,” Arthur shot back, his eyes cold. “Whether or not the people support something is not of particular moment to me. I do what I feel needs to be done, and I will not do what I do not feel needs to be done.”

  Cordoba started to reply, but Stockwell spoke right over him. He was staring with incredulity at Arthur. “With all respect, Mr. President, what the hell are you saying? That you’re going to do nothing about this . . . this outrage! The American people are screaming for blood! They want—”