Circles of Seven

by Bryan Davis

  With a lightning-fast swing of the sword, Valcor severed the snake’s thick neck, and its head landed in Merlin’s lap.

  Merlin lunged for Valcor’s oar. “Keep swinging!” He drove the oar into the water and heaved against the muddy bottom.

  A second scaly creature wriggled its body over the canoe, then coiled around the entire vessel. As it constricted, the floor of the boat cracked, sending a thin spray of water into the air. Valcor swung the sword down hard, slicing cleanly through the snake’s midsection. Purple blood mixed into the spray, coating Valcor’s shirt.

  The bisected creature slid away, separating the front and back of the boat. Merlin balanced on one half and Valcor on the other as the bobbing wreck began to sink. “Run for it!” Merlin shouted, leaping toward shore.

  Valcor bounded over the snake’s body and splashed into the moat. More snakes surged across the surface. Sloshing through hip-deep water, Valcor swung Excalibur. Another head lopped off. And another. He spun around and sliced a snake’s throat, making its head flop backwards.

  Valcor waded forward until he reached the shallows, then dashed to shore, mud, blood, and water dripping from his clothes.

  Merlin sat on the grassy beach with his head bowed over his crossed legs, still clutching an oar. Valcor dropped down next to him, breathing heavily. “So much . . . for our . . . surprise visit.”

  Merlin gasped for breath. “If Morgan . . . is not alerted to our presence by now . . . she is a heavy sleeper indeed.”

  “Maybe you should sing your magic song to her,” Valcor said, wiping Excalibur’s blade on his sleeve. “It worked so well on the snakes.”

  Merlin let out a quiet, “Harumph,” then rapped Valcor on the leg with his oar. “The song is not magic. The melody and rhythm lull the beasts of the earth to sleep. But since this is not an earthly place, I was not sure how effective it would be.” He rose to his feet. “Come. Morgan’s sister, Elaine, often haunts these shores at night. We would be safer with the snakes than in her clutches.”

  Valcor stood and sheathed his blade. “I will not feel safe until I leave this place. I know what you promised, but no one has ever returned from the underworld.”

  Merlin’s pupils grew, shining like obsidian. “All who enter willingly may leave without cost. Those who come against their will, however, can never depart unless an innocent one perishes in their place.”

  “And the king? Will he be able to leave?”

  “Yes. He came willingly to be healed, though he is now under Morgan’s spell.” Merlin pulled on Valcor’s arm. “Let us waste no more time.”

  The two men stole through the mist, passing under the branches of several apple trees before ascending a steep hill, leaning forward as they dug their feet into the grassy slope. After crossing several terraces, they approached a dark building at the apex. They skulked past twin turrets to a rear entrance of the church-like structure. The short steeple in the center of the roof cast a long shadow over the moss-speckled black door. A thick vine grew along the door’s side, seemingly embedded in the wall and leading up past a window on its meandering climb to the roof.

  Merlin reached into his robe’s deep pocket and drew out a small flask. Putting one hand on the vine, he handed the flask to Valcor and whispered, “On my signal, pour this into the crack under the door. When you hear the prism dog slurping it up, return my signal and ascend the vine. By the time you reach the window, I should have it open.”

  Valcor nodded and took the flask. Kneeling at the door, he watched Merlin climb the thick vine, hand over hand, his sandals pushing against stony outcrops in the wall. The old man reached the window and swung his body into its recessed opening. When he had settled into a comfortable position, he waved his arm.

  Valcor pulled a stopper from the flask and poured a thick liquid under the door. A foul odor, a cross between stale urine and rotting flesh, assaulted him. Pinching his nose, he scooted back and listened. Within seconds a snuffling sound penetrated the wood, then a long, multicolored tongue thrust itself under the door, slurping every drop of liquid.

  Valcor jumped to his feet, waved at Merlin, then clambered up the vine. He stretched his leg and planted his foot in the window’s ledge. Taking Merlin’s hand, he swung gracefully into the recess. He grabbed one of the window’s iron bars for balance, and the whole network of rods pulled loose from the frame.

  Merlin tightened his grip on Valcor’s hand until he steadied himself. “I applied a corroding agent to the metal,” Merlin whispered. He pushed a stopper into a vial and slipped it into his pocket. “Carry the bars into the room and set them down quietly. The prism dog will sleep, but a sudden noise may arouse him.”

  Valcor stepped through the window and winked. “I hope your sleeping spell works better than your song.”

  “It is not a spell,” Merlin countered, copying Valcor’s movements. “It is simple chemistry—an herb concentrate and a strong opiate mixed into pork drippings. I know you lack trust in my skills, but I am neither witch nor wizard.”

  The two men dropped silently to the floor. Merlin opened his palm. In its center, a fluorescent stone emitted a bluish green glow, giving just enough light to guide them to a bed on the far side of the room.

  An uncovered man lay on the bed, girded only in a loincloth. Beads of sweat on his face and chest reflected the eerie light, covering his skin with an illusory green pox. His torso rose and fell in an easy rhythm.

  Merlin stooped at the side of the bed and pulled Valcor down beside him. He lowered his voice to a faint whisper. “We are not too late. You will carry the king to the shore, and I will borrow Morgan’s skiff and meet you there. Perhaps the serpents will allow her boat to cross the swamp.”

  “The king looks well,” Valcor whispered back. “Why not awaken him and let him walk? It would be much safer.”

  “He is not well, and he will not awaken easily. Her food is poison to the living, and she must have somehow tricked him into eating it. Every bite makes him more and more a part of this dark realm. It will take him many days to recover.”

  A light flashed, and the severed head of a huge snake rolled up to the bed. Merlin and Valcor jumped to their feet, Valcor with Excalibur drawn.

  A torch-bearing woman stormed into the room, her voice booming. “How dare you violate my private residence!”

  Merlin squared his shoulders. “When you hold the king hostage, Morgan, you have no rights!”

  Valcor charged, his sword ready to swing. Merlin reached out. “Valcor, no!” But it was too late. Morgan waved a dark-sleeved arm, and Valcor flew backwards as though punched in the face by a gargantuan ogre. He slid on the floor, coming to rest at Merlin’s feet.

  Morgan thrust her torch into a stone vase and spread out her arms, her face twisting with rage. “Give me one good reason why I should not slay you where you stand.”

  Merlin held up his hand. “Wait!” He glanced at the king, still sleeping on the bed, then at Valcor, struggling to get up. Merlin placed his hand on Valcor’s head. “Allow my squire to take the king back to Camelot without hindrance, and I will make sure that Sir Devin acquires Excalibur.”

  Morgan’s sneer melted into a smile. With waltzing steps, she glided toward Merlin. “You would give me Excalibur?”

  Merlin shook his head. “You know you can receive nothing unless it is given to you by its rightful protector. Arthur would never give you the sword, so Devin will have to use it in your stead. But since he is your obedient doormat, that arrangement should be quite useful to you.”

  A new flame burned in Morgan’s eyes. “I am unable to take what I wish only because of the curse your God put on me!”

  “I do not control my God,” Merlin shot back. “He controls me.” He helped Valcor to his feet. “Nevertheless, I am able to tell you how to restore your spirit to the world of the living. Will that information ease the pain of not holding the great sword in your own grip?”

  Morgan intertwined her fingers at her waist and glided toward King Art
hur’s bed. “Why would you risk giving me such information?”

  Merlin picked up Excalibur and ran his thumb along the edge of its shining blade. “Ours has been a strange friendship, Morgan. Through the years we could have killed each other countless times.” He pushed the sword into Valcor’s scabbard. “Yet we have always shown mercy.” He lowered his head. “I have long hoped that you would be redeemed, but in your current condition, it can never be so.”

  A wry smile crossed Morgan’s face. “So you want to offer me a second chance? A new body and a new life?”

  Merlin nodded toward Arthur. “To save the king . . . and to save you.”

  Morgan strode to Merlin’s side and stretched her long fingers across his chest. “Your wish is granted. Tell me more.”

  Weeks later, two quiet forms, one male and one female, huddled around a flickering candle. A tent draped across three short poles broke the chill wind. They rubbed their fingers in the candle’s fragile warmth, and as each exhaled, the flame trembled. As they sat cross-legged on a threadbare gray blanket, tension creased each worried brow. They glanced from time to time at the tent’s entrance flap and then at each other as snaps of twigs and owl hoots penetrated the silence.

  With his hands clenched over his mouth, the man took in a deep breath and whispered between his thumbs. “If he is not here soon, Irene, we have to assume the worst. Valcor is no match for Devin.”

  Irene placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “He is no match in battle, Jared, but my brother is wiser by far. Do not give up hope. I would not have arranged this meeting had I thought this a fool’s errand.”

  Jared raised his head. “Did you hear that? A nightingale?”

  Irene shushed Jared and whispered, “It is the signal.” She pursed her lips and blew a warbling bird whistle.

  Within seconds, the tent flap flew open, and a man bustled in, water dripping from his wet sleeves.

  Irene grasped the man’s arm. “Valcor! Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head, stooping under the low ceiling, panting. “Devin . . . Devin tracked me to the river’s edge, so I swam . . . swam upstream a thousand cubits.” He took a deep breath and continued. “I ran the rest of the way. It will be some time before the dogs pick up the trail again.”

  “Still, we must hurry.” Valcor pulled a scroll from his vest and sat beside Jared. “I found the letter.” He rolled it out on the blanket. “And I managed to keep it above water.”

  Irene glanced upward and clasped her hands together. “Thank the Maker!”

  Valcor wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. “Yes. It is a miracle that I escaped. I guess my bribe wasn’t quite big enough, and the guard tipped Devin off.” He rolled up his wet sleeves and ran his fingers across the parchment, smoothing out the wrinkles. “But this information is worth all the trouble.”

  Jared eyed the letter. “It is lengthy. Please give us a summary.”

  Valcor gazed at his friend, a former dragon, and his only sister, who was once Hartanna, the next queen of the dragons. He held the letter close to the dancing flame. “It is clear that Devin is now more dangerous than ever.”

  “But he failed,” Irene said. “Arthur and Merlin squashed the rebellion.”

  “Devin didn’t fail completely. He took Excalibur, and now Merlin has vanished. Who can predict how powerful Devin and Morgan will become?”

  Irene straightened her back and placed her hands on her knees. “But will he give the sword to her? Devin is evil, but he is not stupid. Once she possesses the sword, she will have no more use for him.”

  Valcor slid the candle closer to the letter and shook his head. “When Merlin and I journeyed to Avalon to rescue the king, I learned that Morgan cannot keep Excalibur, or anything else, unless its protector freely hands it over to her.” He pressed his finger on the page. “This letter explains what I believe is an even greater danger. You see, in order to secure the king’s freedom, Merlin promised to tell Morgan how to restore her wandering spirit to a body, but he refused to give her the information until His Majesty and I arrived safely in Camelot. The promise, it seems, has been fulfilled in this letter, which I recently learned was in Devin’s possession.”

  Irene shifted to Valcor’s side and draped her shawl across his shoulders. She eyed the letter’s exquisite penmanship. “Why would Merlin make such a promise to a witch?”

  Valcor took her hand. “I asked Merlin that very question. He said the plan is of divine origin and extends well beyond his vision, but we should not worry; God knows what He is doing. In any case, it seems that Morgan is not a witch, at least not the common variety we have seen. She was the wife of a Watcher.”

  “A Watcher!” Jared repeated. “I thought they were all banished to the abyss!”

  “They were, but Morgan’s husband taught her the Watchers’ crafts, the evil arts of the fallen angels. She did not know that practicing these arts would cause her to lose her humanity. She actually took on the nature of the Watchers. She has no hope of redemption without becoming human again and giving herself in obedience to the Christ. She craves a new body. But obedience to the Christ?” Valcor let out a low snort.

  A peal of thunder rolled across the sky. Valcor’s gaze flashed toward the tent entrance as he rolled up the scroll and thrust it back into his vest. “There is much to explain, and time is short.” He held his hand over his vest pocket. “It seems that Merlin told Morgan she needed a hostiam viventem, a living sacrifice, in order to become human again. That sacrifice has to be a legal, female relative of the king—a wife, a daughter, or perhaps even a niece. Well, Morgan had her evil eye on Guinevere, but not even demonic arts could persuade Arthur to give up his wife. So, it seems that she changed her plan, hoping Devin could take the throne.”

  “But how would that further her cause?” Jared asked. “Devin has no wife and no female relatives that I know of.”

  “Who would have him?” Irene sliced her hand across her throat. “I would kill myself before I let that piece of filth touch me!”

  Valcor smirked. “Even dead, you might still be a target. Merlin said that a deceased woman could be a hostiam if she sacrificed herself for the cause of love, assuming, of course, that the body has not been dead long. But Devin would have no need to hunt for corpses. If he had succeeded in usurping the throne, he would have had his choice of women. Morgan would have entered his wife and become queen, and Devin would gain enough power to rule the world. I believe Devin would have put up with a witch of a wife for a prize like that.”

  A distant howl drifted into the tent. Valcor pushed the entrance flap to the side and leaned out, then ducked his head back in. “So Devin and Morgan have an understanding. She provides him with power, with influence in high places, and he, in turn, uses that power to become king, gets married, then provides Morgan with a body to live in.”

  Irene raised a finger to her chest. “But if any legal female relative would serve as host, then I really would be a candidate, would I not, since I am an adopted daughter?”

  Valcor nodded. “You would be, yes.”

  “Then why does Devin seek to kill me?”

  “Because,” Valcor replied, stroking his chin, “he has identified you as a former dragon. He hasn’t yet made the connection that you are also in the royal line. So you have peril either way. If you are a dragon, Devin wants you dead. If you are an heir, Morgan wants you alive, yet in such a way that you would be better off dead. I believe, however, that Devin’s bloodlust will override his desire to search for Morgan’s hostiam, so he will likely try to kill you until the day he dies.”

  “If he ever dies,” Irene added.

  Jared’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “If? Why do you say if?”

  “Haven’t you noticed his new youthfulness?” Irene asked. She brushed her finger across her calf. “He shows no sign of the leg wound I gave him when I fought with him as a dragon. If Morgan’s evil handiwork has made him like the Watchers, then who knows how long he might live?”

  Valc
or firmed his chin. “Then I was right. We should all go into hiding. Although your friendship is dear to me, we must separate. The farther apart we live and the less we communicate with each other, the more difficult it will be for Devin and Morgan to find us all.”

  He began to rise, but Irene pulled on his sleeve. “Wait. I have something for you.” She opened her palm. Two spherical red stones rolled to the edge of her hand, looking like a pair of polished cranberries at the peak of harvest. She plucked them from her palm, handing one to each of the men. “You know what the rubellite means to the dragon race. I ask you to keep it. Always remember what we once were. If you ever procreate, pass it along to your progeny at the appropriate time.” She gazed up at them, her blue eyes sparkling. “As these gems reflect the vitality of your mortal essence, may you always reflect the nobility of our race through your courage, your integrity, and your sacrifice.”

  Valcor stood and bowed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He rolled a tear onto his finger and held it out for Jared and Irene to see. “How rare were the tears of a dragon. We once lived in Paradise, and because of the corruption of an angel disguised as a dragon, all the world was cast into darkness. Now, as humans, we shed many tears—for what was lost, for what might have been, and for the end of friendships. Good-bye, my true friends.” He bowed again and hurried from the tent.

  “We had better go as well,” Jared said, holding the tent flap open for Irene.

  She raised a finger. “We must wait for his signal that all is clear.”

  They waited, listening so intently they could hear a faint sizzle from the candlewick. Another howl pierced the night. Jared wet his fingers and snuffed the flame. “That’s a good enough signal for me.” He and Irene shuffled from the tent and folded it up.

  After inhaling deeply, Jared tucked the bundle under his arm. “It’s a new world, Hartanna, if I may call you that one last time. We will now be alone and friendless, perhaps for many years. This knowledge of Morgan’s intent to capture a hostiam is vital in helping us understand our enemies, but it also casts a heavy burden on our shoulders.” He took Irene’s hand. Her eyes glittered in the moon-washed night. “If Valcor speaks the truth,” he said, “you are in the greatest danger. You must go into hiding as far away as possible, and it would be best if I never learn where you are.”