Area 51: The Legend (35 page)

“Are you ready to finish the shell that sustained this life?” the first woman asked.

Arthur closed his eyes. “I am ready.”

“Is there anything since the last time you merged with the
ka
that you need to tell us?”

Arthur shook his head, knowing his silence would ensure that when his spirit was passed on, there would be no memory of Percival’s quest, which would guard the knight for the rest of his life. It was his last thought.

The black blade slammed down into the exposed chest, piercing his heart. The body spasmed once, then was still. The woman stood and placed the blade back in its sheath.

The other woman extended a gloved hand, fist clenched, over the body. The fingers moved, as if crushing something held in it. She spread her fingers and small black droplets, the size of grains of sand, fell onto the king. The droplets hit flesh, armor, and cloth. Where it fell on the latter two, they moved swiftly across the surface until they reached flesh. Where they touched skin, they consumed, boring through and devouring flesh, bone, muscle, everything organic. Within ten seconds nothing was left of the king but his armor.

With no further ceremony, the two swiftly retraced their steps to the craft they had arrived on. It lifted and swiftly accelerated away, disappearing into the storm clouds.

The heavens finally let loose with rain, announcing the arrival with a cacophonous barrage of thunder, lightning playing across the top of the tor. A large bolt struck the high tower of the abbey, shattering stone and mortar, spraying the debris over the remains of the king.

STONEHENGE

The gentle breeze blowing across the Salisbury plain carried the thick smoke produced by wood and burning flesh over the megalithic stones. It also brought the screams of the condemned and the chants of the Druid priests. The sun had set two hours earlier, but the stones were lit in the glow of the burning wicker man. Over fifteen meters high, the skeleton of the effigy was made of two thick logs serving as main supports up through the legs, reaching to the shoulders, from which crossbeams had been fixed with iron spikes. The skin consisted of wicker laced through the outer wooden frame.

Inside the “skin,” in a jumble of torsos, limbs and heads, were people. Crammed in so that each could hardly move. Some were upright, others sideways, and others upside down, filling every square meter of the interior.

Around the wicker man’s feet were bundles of straw that had just been set on fire, the flames licking up the legs, burning those who filled out the calves and thighs. Their screams of pain mixed with the pleading of those above them, all of which fell on deaf ears as the priests and priestesses who surrounded the wicker man concentrated on their chanting and dancing.

There were four distinct groups surrounding the wicker man, each one oriented on a cardinal direction. To the north they wore yellow robes, signifying air. To the west, blue for water. To the east, green for earth. And to the south, between the wicker man and the mighty stones, they wore red, signifying fire. With the great King Arthur and his foe Mordred newly dead, there was chaos in the land and the Druids had come out of their hiding places to resume their ancient rites.

Those inside the wicker man were all who had received a sentence of death over the course of the past year. Criminals and nonbelievers, and those who had served the king in the local area in suppressing the old religions and collecting taxes. The sentence was being carried out this evening through the purifying flame.

The burning of the condemned was just the beginning of the night’s activities. After the flames died down, the Druids would move to the south, to the standing stones. While the Druids now claimed the stones as their holy place, no one gathered around the wicker man really knew who had placed the inner circles of megaliths or why.

There were legends, of course. Of Gods who had ruled a land in the middle of the ocean, a place called Atlantis. Of war among Gods, and how their battles soon became man’s. Of priests who came to England from over the sea. Some spoke of sorcerers and magicians moving the massive stones with the power of their minds. Merlin, the counselor of the king, was said to have had something to do with the stones when he was young, hundreds of years earlier. There were even whispers of those who were not human and the Undead walking the Earth, but such talk was mixed with tales of pixies and fairies and other strange creatures. There was even a tale that the center, most massive stones, had been brought up out of the Earth, sprouting like plants at the command of the Gods.

The screams grew louder as the flames rose higher on the wicker man, their volume matched each time by the Druids. Away from the brutal scene, in the darkness, a slight female figure, wrapped in a black cloak with a silver fringe, led a horse pulling a litter on which another, larger cloaked figure was lashed. She stumbled and almost fell, only the support of the horse’s bridle keeping her upright. Her cloak was dirty and tattered, her step weary, yet there was no doubt of her determination as she regained her step and pressed forward into the megalithic arrangement, passing the outer ring of stones.

The fiery light of the wicker man fell on the man on the litter. His robe was also worn and bloodstained though he wore armor beneath the cloth. The metal was battered and pierced. His lifeless eyes were staring straight up at the stars.

The complex they passed through had been built instages. In the center where they were headed were five pairs of stones arranged in a horseshoe. Each pair consisted of two large upright stones with a lintel stone laid horizontal on top. A slab of micaceous sandstone was placed at the midpoint of the entire complex, to serve as a focal point for worship and an altar for the various local religions that flourished briefly, then were swept under by the weight of the years. Later builders had constructed a second smaller ring around this, using spotted dolomites. And even later, a third encircling ring thirty meters in diameter was built consisting of sandstone blocks called sarsen stones.

The woman led the horse and litter up to the oldest set of stones, an upright pair covered by a lintel stone. She threw back her hood revealing lined skin and gray hair shot through with remaining black. She untied the litter from the horse.

“We waited too long, my love, and we became too noticeable,” she whispered to her partner in a language no one else on the face of the planet would have understood. It had not yet really sunk in to her that he could not hear her and never would hear her again.

She noted the orientation of his dead gaze and she too peered upward for a moment searching among the stars. She pointed. “There, my dear Gwalcmai.” He had been known as Gawain at Arthur’s court and had fought at the Battle of Camlann, where the leaders mortally wounded each other. It was there he had received the wounds that had drained the life from his body.

However, it was not the wounds to his body, or even his death, that frightened her. It was the damage to an artifact he wore on a chain around his neck, underneath the armor. It was shaped in the form of two hands and arms with no body spread upward in worship.

A mighty blow had smashed through the armor and severed the artifact in half. A tremor passed through her body at the sight, and tears she had held in for the week of travel burst forth. An earthquake of fear and sorrow threatened to overwhelm her. She could hear the chanting and see the flickering fire to the north and knew she did not have time to wallow in her pain before the Druids came here to worship what they could not comprehend.

She ran her hands lightly over the surface of the left upright stone, searching. After a moment, she found what she was looking for and pressed her right hand against the spot she had located.

For a moment it seemed as if even the chanting of the Druids and the screams of the dying halted. All was still. Then the outline of a door appeared in the stone. It slid open. She unhooked the litter from the horse and grabbed the two poles. With effort almost beyond the capability of her aged body, she pulled it into the darkness beyond. Freed of its burden and smelling the foul air, the horse bolted away into the darkness. The door immediately shut behind them, the outline disappeared, and all was as it had been.

AVALON

Merlin slowly rowed across the placid water toward the tor. The bottom of the boat grated onto a pebbled beach. He stowed the oars, tied the boat off to a stunted tree, then made his way up the track that wound its way up the hill. He walked as if carrying a great burden, stoop-shouldered and with stiff legs, but all he had in his hands was a long staff of polished wood which he leaned on to aid his climb. His face was hidden in the shadow of an overhanging hood, but a white beard poked out at the bottom.

When he reached the top, he paused, taking in the shattered stone of the abbey. Then he looked all about, at the country that surrounded the lake. Nothing moved under an overcast sky. It was as if the land had been swept clear of man and beast. A gust of cold wind caused the man to pull his robe tighter around his body. Ever since the great battle of Camlann the land had appeared bleak and cold.

He walked to the abbey and through a doorway. The interior was open to the sky, the floor littered with stone blocks from the collapsed roof. With a gnarled hand Merlin reached into the neck of his robe and retrieved a medallion. On the surface of the metal was the image of an eye. He placed it against the front of the small altar where there was an indentation of similar shape. He held the medallion there for several moments, then removed it, sliding it back inside his robe.

He rubbed his hands together as he waited. He started as a door swung open in the wall of the abbey and a figure stepped through, cloaked in brown. He too wore a hood, which he pulled back revealing a lined face adn silver hair. His eyes widened as he recognized the man by the altar.

“Myrddin!”

The old man wearily smiled. “I have not been called that in a long time, Brynn. At the court of Arthur the King they called me Merlin.”

“So I have heard,” Brynn said.

Merlin looked about. “They would have brought Arthur here.”

“He died right there,” Brynn pointed toward the nearest stone wall of the abbey.

“And Excalibur?”

“No sorrow?” Brynn folded his arms across his chest. “No sign of grief for the death of your king?”

“I knew he was dead,” Merlin said. “I have grieved in private.”

“I doubt it.”

Merlin straightened, drawing himself up, and despite his worn condition, Brynn took a step backward.

“I did what I did for the land, for the people.”

“It did not work,” Brynn noted.

“It was better than hiding in a cave with old papers,” Merlin snapped.

“Was it?” Brynn didn’t wait for an answer. “The land is worse off than it was. Many have died. The Grail was almost lost. The sword too. It is good that you don’t consider yourself one of us any longer. You betrayed our order.”

“I went beyond our order as must be done at times.” Merlin stamped his foot on the tor impatiently. “Our order has watched since the time of Atlantis. We once worshipped the ‘Gods.’ And when they fought among themselves, many of our people died and Atlantis was destroyed, the survivors scattered. I talked with Arthur many times—he was a Shadow of one of these creatures. He knew much of the great truth.”

” ‘The great truth’?”

“What do we know?” Merlin asked Brynn. “Do we know where the ‘Gods’ came from? Why they are here?”

The look on Brynn’s face indicated he didn’t even understand the questions, never mind wonder about the answers.

Merlin sighed and dropped that line of thought. “Excalibur is more than just a sword. It does other things. And the war will come again. And both sides will want it. And men like me”—Merlin nodded, acknowledging his role in recent events—”will try to use Excalibur also as a symbol. But it is more than a symbol. It has a purpose, a very critical purpose. It is a critical piece, one of several, in a very ancient puzzle.”

Brynn waited, listening.

“I am here to make amends,” Merlin said.

“And how will you do that?”

“Excalibur must be hidden better than this place.”

“I do not—” Brynn began, but Merlin slammed the butt of his staff onto the stone floor.

“Listen to me, Brynn. The sword must be hidden. Since it was brought out, those who you watch now know where it is. We—I-- awakened those better left sleeping and they sent forth their Shadows to do war to try to gain the sword and the Grail. Both were hidden for many generations but now this place is no longer safe. You know that or else you would not have sent away the Grail.”

“How do you know this?”

“Watchers are so ignorant. I was ignorant, but I have traveled far and seen much. Have you even read some of the papers you guard so closely below? That is what I spent my time doing while I was here.”

“I have read those scrolls I can,” Brynn argued.

“And the ones you can’t read? The ones written in the ancient runes?”

“None can read them.”

“I could and can.”

“And what do they say?” Brynn asked, interested in spite of himself.

“The decision that demanded that our sole function be merely to watch what transpired was made by a vote at the first Gathering of Watchers. And it was not unanimous. There were those who thought watching wasn’t enough and action needed to be taken. That man would be best off if we continued to fight for freedom from the ‘gods’ and their minions.”

“But the vote was to watch,” Brynn said simply. “It is the rule of our order.”

Merlin sighed in frustration. “But it was a decision made by men. And we are men. We get to change it.”

Brynn shook his head. “The order would never change that. And there has not been a Gathering in memory.”

“You are ignorant,” Merlin said.

“What will you do with the sword?” Brynn turned the subject from things he knew nothing of.

“Take it—and the sheath that contains it—far from here. And hide it well in a place where men—and those who pretend to be men—cannot easily get to it.”