Area 51: The Legend (36 page)

“There is no reason for me to believe you,” Brynn said as he turned back toward the doorway.

“I was wrong.”

Brynn paused.

Merlin continued. “We should not get involved with these creatures and their war among themselves. We do not have the power for that.”

“And?” Brynn demanded. “That is the Watcher’s credo. To watch. Not to act. Which you violated.”

“And that is wrong also,” Merlin said. “We must not just watch. We must act. But not in the way I did, trying to imitate these creatures, allying with one side of the other. I thought Arthur—” He shook his head. “I was misled, as the priests of old were. We must keep ourselves separate. Completely separate. And fight them when we have to and when we can do so with a chance of victory.”

“What does that have to do with the sword?” Brynn asked.

“It is a thing each side needs in order to win civil war,” Merlin said. “And now they know of this place and it is easily accessible. That is why Excalibur must be removed. It must not be found by Aspasia’s Shadow or Artad’s followers or others, even more evil, who would seek to destroy it.”

Brynn’s face paled. “The Ancient Enemy?”

Merlin nodded.

“I thought that was just a myth made up by the priests. As the Christians have their Satan opposing their God.”

“There is always some truth in every myth,” Merlin said.

Brynn ran a hand through his beard, obviously shaken.

“You say it is the rule of the Watchers to only watch,” Merlin said. “Then how did Excalibur and the Grail come here in the first place?”

“They have traveled far over the ages. Joseph of Arimathea brought them here for safekeeping from Jerusalem.”

“And did he not violate the rules of our order by doing so?”

Brynn reluctantly nodded.

“Then let me right that wrong and remove them from here. Then you can go back to watching.”

“Excalibur is safe now,” Brynn said with little conviction. “I know that—”

Merlin cut him off. “
They
came here to retrieve Arthur’s
ka
, didn’t they?”

Brynn slowly nodded. “Yes. The Ones Who Wait.”

“Then they know this place. They will be back.”

“It is what I fear,” Brynn admitted.

“They can always find the sword here,” Merlin said, “but I can put it in a place that will be difficult, if not impossible for them or any others to find and bring back.”

Brynn frowned. “Where?”

“On the roof of the world.”

“Where is this roof?”

“Do not concern yourself with that.” Merlin smiled. “You have nothing to fear if the sword isn’t here.”

This last bit of logic finally came home to rest with the Watcher. “Come.” Brynn indicated for Merlin to follow him.

STONEHENGE

Stonehenge was abandoned. Where the wicker man had been, there was only cold ash with a smattering of blackened bone. The Druids had gone back to the hills, hiding from the brigands who now roamed the land, and ekingout a living from the countryside. So it had been for centuries, so it continued. The stones had seen many invaders, many worshippers. And they would see more in the future.

The sky was gray and a light rain was falling, blown about by a stiff breeze. In the middle of the megalithic arrangement, the outline of the doorway reappeared on the left standing stone of the center pair. It slid open and one person appeared garbed in black robes. Noting the rain, the figure pulled back her hood. She resembled the woman that had first entered, but fifty years younger. Instead of age withered flesh, her face was smooth and pink. Her hair was coal black. She turned her face upward, allowing the rain to fall on it. The falling water mixed with the rivulet of tears on her face.

Donnchadh had tried and failed as she had feared. Gwalcmai was truly dead. After all the years they had been together. She reached back into the stone and pulled the litter out with the old body tied to it.

Reluctantly, she stepped out of the entryway, dragging the litter, and the door closed behind her, then disappeared. She slowly walked through the stones, onto the plain, pulling his body. She passed the site of the wicker man, sparing it not even a glance, and continued. When she reached a small ridge, just before she was out of sight of Stonehenge, she turned and looked back.

It was dusk and the rain had ceased. She could see the stones in the distance. She felt very, very alone, a slight figure in the midst of a huge plain. She went to a lone oak tree, its branches withered and worn. It was like a living sentinel overlooking the stones. Using a wooden spade, the woman dug into the dirt, carving out a grave. It took her the entire night to get deep enough.

As the first rays of the sun tentatively probed above the eastern horizon, she climbed out of the hole. Her robe was dirty, her dark hair matted with mud, the fresh skin on her palms blistered from the labor.

She took her husband and slid him into the hole she had made. Her hand rested on his cheek for many long minutes before she reluctantly climbed out of the grave. She reached inside her pocket and pulled out the small broken amulet. She stared at it for a while, then reached inside her robe and retrieved a chain holding a similar object, this one undamaged. She added the damaged one to the chain around her neck and held it for a moment, tracing the lines. Then she looked down at her husband and spoke in their native tongue.

“Ten thousand years. I loved you every day of those many years. And I will remember and love you for the next ten thousand.”

With tears streaming down her face, Donnchadh threw the first spadeful of dirt into the grave. After an hour she was done. Then she turned to the south for one last task.

Merlin held up his hand and his small party of Watchers halted. A golden craft came racing in low to the ground, directly toward them. Several of the Watchers cried out in alarm and threw themselves to the ground. The craft landed directly in front of them. A hatch on the top opened and two people—a man and a woman—got out along with a third party—someone who was not human. Both humans were armed with long spears and walked down the slope of the craft to the ground, while the alien remained on top.

“I will take the Grail,” the woman said as she came to a halt less than a meter away from Merlin. The spear was held in a manner that while not directly threatening, came close.

Merlin hesitated.

“If you do not give it to me, you will die, and I will have it anyway. And you will give me the sword.”

“No.”

The woman lowered the spear until the point was almost touching Merlin’s chest. “Give me the Grail and Excalibur.”

There was a cry of alarm from behind the woman. She hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. Donnchadh was on top of the bouncer, a sword held against the neck of the Airlia. “We will keep the sword,” she called out. “You may take the Grail back to Giza and put it in the Hall of Records.”

The Ones Who Wait did nothing. Donnchadh pressed the sword into the Airlia’s neck.

“
Do as she requests,
” the Airlia called out in its native tongue.

“Give them the Grail,” Donnchadh ordered Merlin.

The sorcerer handed over the Grail, still wrapped in the white cloth. Donnchadh held her place as they came back and climbed inside the ship. Then she removed the blade and quickly made her way down the side, joining Merlin. The bouncer lifted and flew away to the south.

“Will they come for me again?” Merlin asked her.

Donnchadh watched as the ship disappeared in the distance. “They might, but I don’t think so.” She turned to him. “Do as I ordered—take the sword to the roof of the world.”

GIZA

The bouncer approached in darkness. It came to a hover near the Great Pyramid and the Airlia and one of the Ones Who Wait exited, the latter helping the wounded alien. They entered the Roads of Rostau and wove their way to the Hall of Records. The Airlia used the scepter to open the Hall and the Grail was placed inside.

They retraced their steps, the Airlia moving even more slowly. As they exited the Great Pyramid, the Airlia collapsed, its energy spent now that it had accomplished its task. The One Who Waits carried it into the craft.

As the bouncer raced south over Africa, the Airlia died. Arriving at Ngorongoro, they landed the saucer in the crater near the lake and buried the Airlia with the scepter. Then they re-entered the base and went back to doing what they did best: Waiting.

A.D. 535:
MOUNT
EVEREST

It took six years. From his original company of six, there were only two of Merlin’s companions left alive. And they were now slowly dying with him.

They were close to the top of the mountain. They had gone as high as they could go, but their dedication could only carry them so far against the cold, the lack of oxygen and mountain. They lay huddled together on a narrow ledge on the side of the mountain. Slowly one of the Watchers stopped shivering, then the other, as life seeped out of their bodies. Merlin was the last to go, his hands tightly gripping the sword he had carried around the world and up the mountain.

When he died, there was the slightest trace of a smile on his blue lips. He had, for once, succeeded.

ROBERT
DOHERTY
is a pseudonym for a bestselling writer of military suspense novels. He is a West Point graduate and served as a Special Forces A-Team leader before writing full-time. He is also the author of
The Rock, Area 51,
Area 51: The Reply, Area 51: The Mission, Area 51: The
Sphinx, Area 51: The Grail, Area 51: Excalibur, Area 51: Nosferatu, Psychic Warrior,
and
Psychic Warrior: Project Aura.
For more information go to
www.BobMayer.org