By Force Alone

by Lavie Tidhar

He knows she doesn’t love him. And as for him, he has no love for anyone but the sword.

  He’s waiting, Merlin knows. He’s counting down the days to battle.

  ‘Fuck this,’ Merlin mutters. He jumps on the windowsill and turns into a bird once more. He seems to be spending a lot more time in avian form these days.

  He flaps his wings. They’re stiffer than they used to be. He takes to the air, plunges down, catches a thermal and rises again. Used to be easier, he thinks sourly.

  But then, even Merlins get old.

  Camelot’s a shining pattern of fire below him. In moments the clear cold air takes him away and it vanishes behind, and then there’s mostly darkness below. Here and there an isolated village with a fire or two still burning. He flies over a darkening island, with only the stars to guide his way.

  And what will they say about him? he wonders. Will they portray him as the wild man of the woods? Some have called him that. Will they make him a councillor, a wise man, a guide to kings? Or will they see him as he truly was, just a guy like all of us, just a stranger on a crumbling truss, trying to make his way home?

  Will they make him fat? Will they give him a beard?

  The bird that is Merlin shudders. He dives and swoops on the currents.

  Merlin follows the stars.

  *

  He comes, first, to a place he’d hoped never to visit again.

  A ring of standing stones, casting shadows in moonlight.

  Like a watching eye.

  He thinks of a night long ago, a night much like this one, and a naked figure tied with ropes, and the flash of a blade, and the dark colour of blood as it seeped into the earth.

  From above, it just looks like a few big boulders standing there.

  But he knows what it really is. What’s hidden below. The extensive network of burial chambers.

  The graves.

  This is the Giants’ Dance.

  Stone-fucking-henge.

  This is where the bodies are buried.

  He lands a little crookedly in the circle. Stumbles as he turns back into a man.

  There are only so many ways into Fairyland but this here’s a door painted in blood and grounded in death.

  Every scream, every cry, every time someone begged in vain for forgiveness had written and rewritten the world here in runes.

  Merlin lifts his staff and knocks.

  ‘What do you want now, you cunt?’

  A Jenny Greenteeth crawls out of a hole in space and peers at him irritably. ‘Shoo! Shoo!’

  ‘Mistress Greenteeth.’

  ‘Oh, Merlin, it’s you. Again. What do you want?’

  ‘I wish to speak to those who live by water.’

  ‘The mistresses are busy. Come back later.’

  ‘No.’

  She sighs. ‘Then come through.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Listen, you little fucker—’

  But then someone does come from the other side.

  She materialises between the stones and smiles at him. The air shimmers around her and the stars, above, fade and reform, for here they truly are but the lights of the firmament. Merlin can see now the constellations above Fairyland, the Swift and the Gibbet, the Tax Collector and the Door Into Air.

  ‘Hello, little man.’

  ‘Morgause,’ he says with loathing.

  Her teeth are so white and so sharp. The Jenny mumbles something and slithers back into the other place. Morgause and Merlin circle, the stars keep shimmering, the constellations form and change. Not quite the one world, not quite the other.

  ‘A merry dance,’ Morgause comments. ‘A merry dance we’ve led.’

  ‘You won’t get away with it.’

  ‘Oh, Merlin.’ She laughs at him. ‘I already have.’

  ‘I won’t let you.’

  ‘Come, come, little man. You’ve had your fun. You’ve hogged the sandbox. Now it’s time for someone else to play. You can’t say we’ve not played you fair. You’ve had your golden age, your mythic time of peace and calm, prosperity, the bards will sing of this age of marvels—’

  She doubles over herself laughing.

  ‘Screw you!’ he screams.

  ‘You wish, you little turd!’

  The venom’s always there, just below the surface.

  They circle and circle each other.

  ‘So what now?’ he says.

  She shrugs. ‘The game’s the game, same as it ever was.’

  ‘He’s just a delinquentis,’ Merlin says. ‘A, a punk.’

  ‘You hush your mouth. He’s mine. And he’s got a legitimate claim to the throne.’

  Merlin snorts. ‘As if that ever mattered.’

  Morgause’s eyes glint in the starlight. ‘Don’t overreach yourself, little Merlin. What’s done is done. Your boy is weak. He’s had his time. Now scram.’

  ‘Alright.’ He’s breathing hard. ‘Alright. I’ll go.’

  She flashes those teeth at him again. Twirls in a dance. ‘Such good times we had here, in the old days. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘Yes.’

  The screams, and the earth so very dark with blood…

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she says. She blows him a kiss.

  Then she’s gone like the mists. The stars assume their ordinary shapes, as recorded by Ptolemy: Andromeda, Cassiopeia, Hydra and Sagittarius.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Merlin mutters. Then he transforms into a bird again and gets out of there fast.

  The starlight guides him.

  In bird shape, Merlin flies towards the sea.

  *

  From high above the Earth, everything looks simpler.

  The bird can see the torches on the sand – lit, then hastily extinguished.

  Can see the long boats glide silently along the waves, coming in from Ireland.

  Eire-land. Merlin shudders. There is a reason Arthur never ventured beyond the waters to that godsforsaken place. Not only are its inhabitants half-giants and man-eaters, so it’s said, who’d suck the tender flesh right off your bones and smack their lips for more. But worse, they have their own wizard, some Christianist magic man, Pádraig they call him; and even Merlin fears the wily old codger. They say he has the staff of one of those Egyptian magic men of old; that he can speak to ghosts and make trees come to life, and that he’d driven all the snakes from Ireland.

  Now Merlin’s not saying this is true. Far as he knows they never had no snakes in Ireland to begin with. But he’s not saying they’re not true. You mustn’t underestimate the power of this new church out of Rome. They have their own fanatics, worse than druids, and they’re as fond of a sword as any greedy knight. No. Best leave the Irish to their pirate ways. You don’t know what they’re capable of, not with the Judeans’ god on their side.

  He watches the smugglers meet the pirates on the shore. The offloading is brisk, efficient. The bird swoops, circles.

  Notes grain, leather goods, freshly slaughtered beef.

  The bird crows.

  Then notices the other two ships coming in.

  Heavier loads.

  Sees the boy, Mordred, open one crate and take out the goods.

  A sword, newly forged.

  Bundles of arrows, neatly tied.

  The smugglers offload. Crates and crates of the things.

  Weapons, changing hands. An arms shipment – a hefty one.

  Interesting.

  Money’s exchanged. The pirates count their gold and leave.

  The smugglers take their shipment and skedaddle.

  They run dark and fast. Unmarked paths with no light to guide them. But they know the way. The bird follows at a distance. They depart the beach and climb a narrow cliff. Rough stairs hewn into the stone. Tunnels that weave and part. One can vanish there without a trace. Even the bird finds it hard to follow.

  They come at last to what must be their nest. Shouts of triumph, and greetings to those who were left.

  The bird huddles in an alcove and
waits.

  Torches are lit. In their light the boy, Mordred, freezes.

  He drops his sword.

  His men on their knees on the ground. A stone table laden with goods, and around the table sit men with the tans and hard lines of life spent on the sea.

  ‘We told you, boy, not to cross us.’

  ‘Master Brastius, I—’

  ‘Save your breath.’

  The older man stands. Spreads his arms. His soldiers surround Mordred’s men. No one moves.

  ‘We are the Legionem Maris!’ the man roars. ‘The Council of the Sea! Who rules the coast?’

  ‘We do!’

  ‘Who runs the goods?’

  ‘We do!’

  ‘Who pays the tax?’

  ‘We don’t!’

  The man roars with laughter. And Merlin thinks of all these riches smuggled in from Ireland past the king’s taxmen. A fortune lost to Camelot. Grain and leather and beef.

  But it is the swords that bother him; and what’s more, he had not seen the ones carrying the swords arrive yet in this hall.

  ‘Not a finger of leather goes through these ports without me getting my share!’ this man, this Brastius, says. ‘Not a single drum of wine leaves from here to Ireland without my say so! Who has the best steaks?’

  ‘We do!’

  ‘Who has the finest Irish wenches?’

  ‘We do!’

  ‘Who rules the coast?’

  ‘We do! We do! We do!’

  The man lowers his arms. He stares sourly at Mordred.

  ‘And yet you thought you could do as you wish? You thought you could circumvent us? What gives you the right, boy!’

  Mordred stands straight. Merlin can admire that about him. He looks this Brastius straight in the eyes. He shrugs. Almost apologetically.

  ‘This,’ he says.

  Then the air is full of whispers. An arrow hits Brastius and goes through his left eye. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish. Then flops down lifeless on the table.

  The archers step forward from the shadows. The men of the Legionem Maris are all dead, and so are their soldiers.

  Mordred smiles.

  He turns to his men.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, ‘Please take a moment to pay your respects.’ Then he laughs, turns, and hawks a gob of phlegm on Brastius’ corpse.

  ‘Brastius! You useless old shit! This is a new day, a new dawn, for the coast – and for all of Britannia! Who rules the sea?’

  ‘We do!’

  ‘Who’ll rule this land?’

  ‘You will!’

  ‘You bet your fucking asses I will! Somebody grab this bird.’

  Too late, Merlin tries to flee. Someone has crept up on him all this while. A black sack comes down on him and the string tied up. He struggles wildly but he’s blind. He’s lifted, pulled, and before he can do anything he’s taken violently out of the sack and shoved into a wooden cage.

  He’s trapped.

  A young, smiling face peers at him through the bars of his tiny prison. A hand holding seeds. Mordred feeds them into his cage.

  ‘Hello, uncle,’ Mordred says.

  *

  Merlin pecks at the seeds. Merlin watches the boy. This Mordred.

  He’s handsome, he’ll give him that. Dresses in black, and there’s a jaunty sword at his hip. A cruel smile, cold eyes, sensuous lips. So young. He’s like a newly forged blade.

  But what arrests Merlin is the taste in the air.

  The boy reeks of power.

  The bird’s so hungry for it. Mortals live so quickly but intensely. Merlin watches the men unload. Swords and knives and bows and arrows. How long has this been going on? he thinks. In Camelot, he did not think to look this way until too late.

  And yet, and still – it’s nothing! Arthur has an army, he has a kingdom, he could crush a hundred Mordreds without working up a sweat.

  There’s something Merlin’s not getting, here.

  Something he’s missed.

  He watches them move about. There’s an air of quiet efficiency. And it dawns on him that they are preparing to depart from that place. That all this – whatever this is – has been planned and put in motion long ago.

  ‘Enjoying the hospitality, uncle?’

  Merlin crows and takes a shit in the cage. The bird droppings fall on the table and Mordred laughs.

  ‘It won’t be long,’ he says. ‘I promise.’

  He mimes twisting a bird’s head off and laughs again. It’s all he seems to do. Merlin’s wings beat in panic against the bars of the cage.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Mordred says. ‘You’re family. Although I wonder what you’d taste like, roasted on the coals and basted in olive oil and wild garlic. Oh, relax!’ He knocks on the cage and moves away.

  Merlin dozes through the long hours. The men come and go, and they take their crates of arms with them. Somewhere, Mordred will be assembling an army, but what army could he possibly raise against the king?

  Delusions of grandeur, Merlin thinks. The boy’s a provincial, he has no true idea of what it is he thinks to do.

  And still, that niggling worry that he’s missed something.

  The bird dozes until weak sunlight, stealing in through holes high in the stone ceiling, wakes it.

  The warehouse, Merlin sees, is all but abandoned now. The crates are gone, and the men with them. He sees Mordred at the far end, in the shadows, pacing.

  Like he’s waiting for someone important, and the someone important is late.

  The bird feigns sleep. Watches the boy. Pacing and pacing. Glances sharply, just the once, at Merlin, but the bird’s asleep.

  Pace, pace, pace, p—

  Hello. What’s this, then.

  Someone does appear. Who is it? Merlin strains but he can’t make him out. An indistinct shape, not tall of stature. Military bearing, though.

  Speaks very quietly.

  Mordred listens. Nods. Aha. Aha.

  Like the boy’s not the king in waiting he makes himself out to be.

  Almost like he’s being given instructions.

  Interesting. Yes. Yes. For just a moment the bird’s wings erupt. They bang against the side of the cage. The other man, the one Mordred’s talking to, turns and looks. For just a moment the light from above catches his face and his attire, and Merlin sees, and he thinks, Oh, shit!

  It all makes sense now!

  He tries to flee his cage. He needs his magic, damn it! But the bars are soaked in some magic-dampening potion, or he’d have fled hours ago.

  He has to get out!

  ‘Shoot that fucking bird!’ Mordred screams.

  Merlin panics. He slams against the bars of the cage, over and over. The cage shakes, tumbles, and takes him with it. It crashes to the floor.

  Mercifully, the door springs open upon impact.

  Merlin bursts out. An arrow whistles but he’s not fucking around anymore and he snaps it mid-air as he transforms, and kills the archer with a contemptuous click of his fingers; though it costs him, this transference of energeia, or whatever it is: don’t ask Merlin to explain fucking magic.

  He limps a little. He’s really not as young as he used to be. He throws a bolt of unholy fire at Mordred, which the boy repels – too easily. Then the boy charges at him with a sword, and Merlin turns and stumbles.

  He curses.

  They fire arrows at him but he dodges them, using the last of his strength. He transforms once more into a bird, takes to the air, heads for those distant holes in the stone ceiling. He almost reaches…

  Then he looks down, and sees no one’s firing anymore.

  And the boy, Mordred, is smiling.

  Then Merlin reaches the exit and he beats his wings against the cold air and shoots up, and out.

  Dawn kisses the horizon over the grey sea. Ireland in the distance, and white-sailed ships out on the waves. Fish leap in the shallows. Dolphins rise to the surface out beyond the breakers, call out a greeting to this new day.

  How
he loves this fucking land, he thinks then.

  He crows into the rising sun and the waves answer his call. He swoops on the wind, loosens his bowels and shits down the rock hole, where he hopes it will hit Mordred in the eye.

  Then he races the sun back to Camelot, to warn the king that Mordred’s working in cahoots with the Anglo-Saxons.

  PART THIRTEEN

  THE LAST BATTLE

  68

  It is an overcast day when they go to war. The dogs bark in the alleyways of Camelot and all the sundials are out of commission. It is as though time itself has momentarily stopped. In the brothels and beer houses the workers peer out of windows at the marching knights. The drums that beat the march are muffled. Ravens huddle on the rooftops like fat drops of rain.

  ‘Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani?’

  A priest in a Christian burial ground on the outskirts of the city prays as he looks up at the sky. Will it rain?

  Washing hangs on the lines. The flower sellers do no trade. Street kids dart to look at the army. So many men, so many swords. Had there been sun, its light would shine off metal helmets, shields. The men move softly. If it rains there will be mud.

  Horses with carts pull their supplies. The horses whinny softly, perhaps impressed by the gravity of events. They shit big steaming piles as they go. A lone black cat sits curled on the stone steps of a mithraeum. She has placed her bet long ago. Now she watches to see who will come on top in this game of soldiers.

  It’s still morning.

  Remember Camelot. This city built of mud and magic, where the Round Table sits, where Merlin’s tower shines across the plains like a beacon. Where knights who are legends in their own lifetime walk the streets like ordinary people, stop for a piss against the wall of a leatherworker shop, where a vicious knife fight might erupt at any moment outside the Gilded Cage, and draw the betting men and women as spectators.

  Here is the forum and here is the zoo, and it is said the queen keeps peacocks and adders. Here are the sellers of Goblin Fruit and candied apples, here are the temples and brothels to satisfy every need and urge. Here come some Christian missionaries, long used to the turmoil of empire, pulling a cart laden with manuscripts. Here the Novum Testamentum and Augustine’s Confessions. Here is Chrysostom’s Against the Jews. Here is James’s Second Apocalypse, here The City of God, here a book of simple hymns.