“I am of a mind to agree with you, Persifal,” Arthur said. “But they come in such numbers—and they have the latest technology on their side—I fear we have fallen behind in the race for the future.”
Persifal laughed again—his good humor was one of the few things that had always made these archaic sessions bearable for Arthur.
“What need we of technology when we have Excalibur—and Arthur to wield it? We shall meet them on the beaches—and drive them back to their cabbages and sausages.”
At least that got a laugh from everyone round the table—a rare united front. Arthur was still wondering how to make best use of it when the air above the Siege Perilous trembled and wavered, like the shimmer of hot sun on the river; it seemed to be a jet-black tear in the fabric of space, no bigger than a sliver of fingernail. Initially Arthur thought he had a hair near his eye and tried to brush it away before he realized he was indeed looking at something hanging in space at eye level above the empty seat.
He turned to Merlin, who shrugged.
“It is not my doing, Sire,” the old man said. As ever his features were hidden beneath the cowl and the mass of bristling beard and muustache, but deep in the shadows under his hood the wizard’s eyes twinkled. It looked to Arthur like excitement.
He turned his attention back to the tear in space. It appeared to be spinning slowly in a clockwise direction. As he watched it quivered, like a struck tuning fork, and changed shape, settling into a new configuration, a black, somewhat oily in appearance droplet little more than an inch across at the thickest point. It hung there, its very impossibility taunting him to go over and look for the trick strings that had to be holding it in place. It swelled, and now looked like an egg more than anything else—a black, oily egg from some creature whose nature could only be guessed at. As Arthur rose from his seat a rainbow aura thickened around it, casting the whole chamber in dancing washes of soft colors as it continued to spin.
Excalibur hummed, the hilt feeling hot in the scabbard as he put his hand on it. There was danger here.
The egg quivered and pulsed. And now it seemed larger still. The chamber started to throb, like a heartbeat. The egg pulsed in time until the throb became a rapid thumping; the chamber shook and trembled. The vibration rattled his teeth and set his guts roiling. The aura around the egg wavered and trembled.
Arthur drew Excalibur—the first time he had ever been given cause to do so in his reign—and stepped around the table. Persifal also stood and drew his sword but no one else moved, all struck immobile by the growing dance of light and rhythm.
“What is it?” Lancelot asked. “Is it the Grail?”
Merlin stepped forward to Arthur’s side.
“I have seen its like afore, Sire. It is not the Grail itself—but it is a part of it—it is an opening—a pathway to deeper secrets. It is a wizardly thing.”
“Is it the Saxons’ doing?”
Merlin shrugged again.
“I cannot be sure, Sire—the last time I saw anything like it, it was Uther, not Arthur, who stood before it.”
There was definitely excitement in the old wizard’s eyes now—and cunning. The old man knew more than he was saying—but that was nothing new. And not for the first time in the old man’s presence Arthur noticed a smell—brine, like salt spray from a blowing sea—it had followed the Wizard around for as long as anyone could remember. It seemed stronger than ever tonight, but Arthur had no time to ponder the meaning—the black egg above the long-empty seat throbbed, ever more violently. It spun—and split, becoming two.
The throbbing deepened until it felt like the Knights were imprisoned in a great drum being beaten by a giant’s hand. Two eggs became four—color danced. The floor—thick stone as it was, beat in time, threatening to knock Arthur off his feet. High above the roof creaked, old timbers feeling the pressure and threatening to crash down on top of them—indeed the whole palace was now vibrating in time to the beating drummer.
Excalibur sent a burst of heat into Arthur’s hand. He raised the weapon high, suddenly more full of life than he had felt since childhood. He brought it down from overhead in a strike that hit the eggs dead center and burst them apart in a concussion that blew white lancing heat through the chamber and out though the doors and windows into the night.
Arthur felt dazed, as if drunk on too much mead and ale, but Merlin had already skipped past him, out onto the balcony.
“Come and see, Sire—it appears we have a new ally.”
Arthur sheathed the sword and stepped outside.
The city was still aflame—but so now was the sky. The Saxon dirigibles burned—white flame, sizzling like lightning as it danced among the aerial fleet and set them afire to burst asunder in great flowers of sparks. Within seconds the sky above Londinium was clear and, even above the crackle and roar of the fires, Arthur heard the joyous cheers of his people.
As he went back into the chamber, he was thinking of Merlin’s words from earlier.
“You already know what is needed—the sword and the grail—as it ever was, as it ever shall be.”
“So—was it indeed the grail?” Arthur asked.
They stood on the balcony again in the morning as the sun rose in the east through smoke and cloud—and over a Londinium that had survived another night. The rest of the company stood with him, waiting for Merlin’s reply. Normally, once the session was done, they would have retired to chambers to divest themselves of armor until the following month, but a silent agreement to stay seemed to have passed through them—and even Lancelot—held upright by Galahad—had joined them to look over their victory.
“It did not feel like anything Christian to me,” Lancelot said, and for once Arthur agreed with him, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything, for Merlin was chuckling again.
“The Grail was never Christian—surely you all know that by now? Some things on this island predate the Christ—more things than you know. Uther knew it—and it is why I am even here at all.”
“Speak sense, not riddles, man,” Galahad said. “Is it, or is it not a weapon we can use?”
“It may be a weapon and it may not, and you may be able to use it, or you may not.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Lancelot said.
“Your mother always thought so,” Merlin replied, then skipped out of the way as the big man lunged at him, over-stretched himself, and fell flat on his face on the stone. Even when he managed to roll over he could not find the strength to lift the weight of the armor and it took Galahad and Persifal to get him upright again, with Merlin laughing like a drain the whole time.
“If only the first Lance could see you now,” he said once the laughing fit subsided. “The shame would kill him.”
Lancelot looked like he might lunge again, but Galahad held him back.
“Just tell us what you know, old man,” Percifal said softly. “They’ll likely be back tonight, and in greater numbers.”
Arthur smelled salt spray again as Merlin walked past him to stand at the edge of the balcony and look out over the river.
“I shall tell you of my first sighting of the opener of the way,” he said. “There was no Arthur then, no sword or grail or table—there was only Uther, and a land he coveted, a land the Romans left behind.”
The wizard waved a hand and the scene beyond the balcony changed—it was a trick Arthur had seen him use many times, but it never failed to fill him with wonder at the possibilities that might exist, beyond the confines of name and title and duty.
He looked over a muddy field beside a great river. There had been a settlement here, on both banks, but it had recently been razed to the ground by fire and looting—Arthur recognized the bends and flow of the Thames readily enough though, and realized he was looking at Londinium, in a time long, long past.
A man trudged through the mud, leading a lame horse. He had Arthur’s face.
“Uther came searching,” Merlin said. “He had heard a tale—of Sototh, the Opener of the Way, seale
d in a temple by the river by the priests of Mithras. And now that those priests had gone, Uther wanted the power they had left behind. So he came.”
The scene shifted, to a catacomb, dank and cold, and Uther, with a firebrand held aloft, walking into a stone cell some twenty feet in diameter that had a well in its center—a black well that seemed to go down into the bowels of the Earth itself.
“Uther called,” Merlin said. “A chant so old that no man had heard it since before the ice came, so old that even Uther himself doubted its provenance. But Sototh came—and a way was opened.”
The scene showed a spiral of black eggs, thousands of them, rising up out of the well and filling the chamber with dancing light and rainbow color. Uther reached into the midst of the eggs—and drew out a gleaming sword. Arthur felt the same sword thrum at his side, as the scene shifted again—Uther, with sword in hand, led a lame horse away across the muddy field. A figure walked beside him—a small figure, robed and cowled, his features hidden behind the bristles of beard and mustache.
“So, what?” Lancelot said as the scene disappeared and reality faded in around them. “We know Excalibur came from Uther—how does that help?”
“It helps,” Merlin said, as if explaining to a child. “Because that temple is still here, under the city. And I know where it is.”
“And?” Lancelot said again.
Arthur replied this time.
“And if it is a weapon—we can find it and use it.”
“We know nothing about it, Sire.” Percifal said.
Arthur touched the hilt of Excalibur, and was given another small burst of heat and energy.
“I know enough to be going on with—it felled those dirigibles quickly enough, didn’t it? So if Merlin can find the spot, and we can go there—I say we go. We go, and we drive the Saxons back—we give them such a beating that they will not think of returning, not while there is an Arthur on the throne of Britain.”
Now that the decision was made, Arthur was keen to get going, to seek out the Temple and find the weapon, but Merlin had advised caution—and darkness.
“It is but a short distance from here, Sire—I can go straight there using the tunnels under the Palace, for it has been a place of pilgrimage for me these many centuries.”
They were now alone at the table, the others having retired until Arthur called for them. His last order had been for them to return at dusk in full armor with swords at hand—Arthur had a feeling that this was a task that had to be done the old way, or not at all.
“You have seen it then, this Sototh?” Arthur asked.
“Alas, no. That way is shut to me—I am not connected to it through the sword like you are. This is a family matter and I am not your kin.”
“Why do you think it came here, tonight?” Arthur asked.
Merlin shrugged again.
“I believe you, in your need, may have called it, Sire—as I said, it is linked through the bloodline and through the sword.”
Arthur voiced his largest concern.
“How dangerous is this undertaking?”
Merlin laughed loudly and Arthur smelled a salty tang again, and something that reminded him of nothing so much as a fresh trout.
“It is as dangerous as anything any Arthur has done since Badon Hill,” he said. “But I shall be with you, your knights shall be with you—the table will prevail, as it always has.”
“They are soft—the old ways have been forgotten. We are all unused to the armor—none of us have ever worn it in anger. How can we expect to win a battle?”
“No,” Merlin said. “Together you are greater than the sum of your parts—again, it was always thus, and is why the table exists in the first place. But you know this, too—this babble is just your nerves talking. You were born for this day. Days like this are why this land has Arthur—why it has you. The king and the sword will prevail.”
“You have seen this?”
Merlin shook his head.
“Matters of the way are closed to me, as it ever was. But we saw the result of the sword and the blood and the way becoming one last night. I see no reason to believe that we will be any less successful tonight. But watch Lancelot—he has been waiting for a reason to usurp you—we must take care not to give him the opportunity.”
Merlin left Arthur alone—as the old wizard departed Arthur smelled it again, even stronger now, salt and fish, as if it was being exuded from somewhere under the man’s robes. There was more going on here than was being said, and Arthur resolved to watch, not just Lancelot, who he had been watching all of his life—but Merlin, a trusted advisor, yes—but also an enigma.
As he ever was.
Arthur spent the afternoon standing on the balcony, watching the city—watching his people. Carriages clattered across the bridge just below him, and the gas-lighters were starting their patrol in the surrounding streets. The warehouses and factories to the south were emptying the day shifts and taking in the evening workers, and small boys ran hither and among the commuters, trying to sell then the latest editions of the newspapers. Arthur had already seen the headline.
SAVED BY THE KING.
The press had got most of the story of what had happened around the table last night. Arthur always suspected Merlin of feeding their frenzy, but whoever it had been, it was obviously good for morale, for the people of Londinium were going about their business, in defiance of the attempted reign of terror from above.
The sprawling chaos that made up this modern city was a far cry from the vision Merlin had shown them. The metropolis had grown around the docks and the trading opportunities from both the continent and the New World had led it to become one of the largest—if not the largest—port in the civilized world. And the Saxons, having coveted the green and pleasant parts of the land for centuries, now wanted the wealth derived from the river, too.
Arthur also knew—had always known—that the Blonds hated the very mention of his name—he was as much a bogeyman to them as they were to his people—and their respective families had been fighting over this land since the first Arthur raised Excalibur at Baden Hill. That night, Arthur had claimed the crown—his birthright—and the Saxe-Coburgs had lost theirs. Neither had ever been allowed to forget it.
The sword hummed at his waist, as if remembering, and when he put a hand on it, it sent him another burst of warmth, reminding him of who he was—and what must be done.
He was still standing there as the sun started to set behind him, and, way to the East, the first black dots above the horizon signified the approach of the Saxe-Coburg air fleet in the Channel.
They seemed to fill the sky.
“It is time, Sire,” Merlin said from behind him.
He turned to go back into the chamber, but the wizard stopped him.
“No, stay there—we shall come to you.”
He heard the clank of armor and mail from beyond the door, then the rest of the knights of the Round Table came to stand on the balcony. Even old Lancelot looked resplendent, his breastplate having been polished to a shine that was almost dazzling.
A cheer rose up from the bridge below—Arthur had been too busy scanning the horizon to notice, but a large crowd had gathered, all their faces raised to look up at the balcony—and now they took up a chant. Arthur suspected Merlin’s hand in this again, but he didn’t mind at all, for as he turned and led the men toward the tunnels, his name rang, loud and proud, echoing down the shafts ahead of them to announce that the quest for the Grail was once again underway.
It did not take long for the initial exhilaration to fade—either the first rat or the first turd he put his foot on saw to that—and Lancelot’s complaints grew ever more loud and more frequent the further down into the dank bowels of the Palace they went.
“I did not expect it to be so hard,” he wheezed at one point.
Merlin chuckled.
“Your mother said that, too.”
Lancelot got a new burst of energy at that quip, and threw himself forward,
attempting to reach Merlin. The smaller man once again danced out of his way, heading more quickly down the passageway with Lancelot following him. Arthur saw the method in the wizard’s madness—the incessant taunting ensured that the Lance’s dander was up—which was useful in keeping him moving forward along with the rest of them.
The way got narrower—and they began to hear a new sound, a thrumming vibration that Arthur at first thought must be carriages on the cobbled streets overhead before he finally recognized the sound—the Saxon dirigible armada was here, over the city. The first distant screams told him the barrage had begun anew.
“We must hurry, Merlin,” he said.
“‘Tis not far now, Sire,” Merlin replied. “Unsheathe the sword—we shall have need of it very soon.”
Merlin was as good as his word—less than a minute later he led the Knights into the same chamber he had shown them in the vision. Two wall sconces flared aflame at his approach, lending them enough light to see the dark well that sat in the exact center of the space. The sound of armor clanging echoed and rang as the company filed inside—with them all there in full armor it suddenly felt cramped, and much smaller than it had originally seemed.
Silence fell—they were now too far below the city to even hear the chaos they knew must still be occurring above their heads. Arthur stood over the foot-high retaining wall and looked down into the well, but there was only darkness.
“Now what?” Lancelot said huffily.
Merlin came to Arthur’s side.
“Raise the sword and say the words,” the wizard said. “Call for Sototh, the Opener of the Way.”
“What words?” Arthur replied—but as soon as he raised the sword they came to him, unbidden as if dredged from some deep forgotten part of his mind.
Through a Mythos Darkly Page 13
