Fall of Knight (3 page)

Helpless to do anything to stop it, the villagers stood around, praying that the wind would not blow the flame in the direction of their homes. And there was much muttering about demon involvement. That either the gods from above or below had looked upon the activities of the warlord and intensely disliked what they had seen, and had meted out appropriate punishment.

There were cries and shouts as the high towers of the castle gave way and collapsed upon themselves, landing on the lower sections and crushing them. There was even more muttering then, for the villagers truly had no idea how to react. None of them were huge admirers of the warlord, who was cruel in his moods and vicious in his temper. On the other hand, his reputation had served to protect them, and they were grateful for that and apprehensive about what was going to happen now that he was most definitely dead.

So the villagers did what all simple folk do in such instances: They began to pray. The village priest, seizing control of the situation, led them in continued supplications to the gods, asking them for strength and guidance. A small goat was brought forward from a nearby farm and promptly sacrificed as an offering. This continued all through the night and into the morning hours without let up, until dark clouds coalesced above and began to pour rain down upon the uncanny conflagration.

There was a steady hiss as the water streamed down, and soon there was nothing but a vast haze of smoke hanging in the air, and it was damned near impossible to see anything. The villagers had ceased their prayers once the rain began, instead falling back to the shelter of the woods and watching from a safe distance until the last of the oddly colored flames was extinguished. Then they began chattering with one another, each asking the other what should be done, and naturally none of them had a better idea than the others as to what the best way to proceed was.

“Look!” one of the villagers, a sharp-eyed farmer, suddenly cried out, pointing in the direction of the castle ruins.

Others looked to see where he was indicating, and there were gasps from all over as they slowly verified that their eyes were not deceiving them.

From deep within the mist that was now hanging over the castle, an individual was emerging. No one could quite make out who or what it was, for he was covered with soot. His hair was long and thick, hanging down around his face, which in turn was grime-besmeared.

In his right hand, he was carrying a spear. In his left, curiously, was a cup. Tucked into his belt was something that was an odd combination of purple and pink. It bore a resemblance to a spike of some sort, but no one could quite make it out beyond that.

He made his way through the rubble, stepping gingerly over the debris. He was wearing a long cloak around him that was very singed and as covered with ash as he himself was. Finally, he emerged from the outermost edge of the castle and stood there, a bizarre and even frightening sight, as the first rays of the sunrise began to creep over the distant hilltop.

“Well?” he said impatiently. “What are you all staring at?”

And with that, he turned away from them. They said nothing to him, unsure of what it was they were facing. If he’d been one of the warlord’s court, his current filthy state made it impossible to determine who precisely he was. Or perhaps he was a demon incarnated, spat up by the eldritch flames they’d all witnessed.

Finally, a small boy stepped forward, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Are we supposed to worship you?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

The sole survivor of the inferno that had consumed the warlord’s home stared down at him for a long moment, and then said, “Yes. Yes, why don’t you go ahead and do that. Be certain to let me know how that turns out for you.”

And with that, he turned his back to the villagers, strode off into the forest, and was never seen by any of them again.

A
RTHUR PENDRAGON, LORD
of Camelot, former mayor of New York City, former president of the United States, and son of Uther, awoke to a day that promised to be very much like the previous one, and the one before that, and the one before that. He could not for the life of him decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The boat’s gentle rocking woke him, as it usually did. There was a soft sighing of contentment next to him, and even in the darkness of the cabin, he could see the general outline of his wife—Gwendolyne Queen Penn, or Gwen Penn as he occasionally liked to needle her—cuddled next to him. Gwen’s flesh pressed up against his, but there was nothing seductive about the movement. The sheet had simply slipped off, and she was seeking the closest source of warmth…which just so happened to be a thousand-year-old king who, in turn, just happened to be her husband.

A small stream of light was filtering through the curtains covering the nearest porthole, and Arthur propped himself up on one elbow, taking in her sleeping form. She was so beautiful, and he loved her so deeply, that sometimes his heart ached with the intensity of the adoration he felt for her. Perhaps that feeling was heightened by all that they had been through and the times that he had nearly lost her.

Gwen. His Gwen.

Her strawberry blond hair, streaked with some gray here and there, had fallen in her face. It was longer than he’d ever seen her wearing it. And why not? There was no one around to cut it. He was a legendary king, not a barber or a beautician. He had told her any number of times that she didn’t need to primp herself or care about such things when it was just the two of them, and she had taken him at his word. When she breathed, strands of it blew up and down. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, and it brought him a peace he had always thought he was incapable of experiencing.

So why am I so damned bored?

He regretted the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him, and he wanted to take it back. Then he realized the absurdity of such a notion. One could not govern one’s thoughts; they went where they wished. As long as one didn’t say everything that popped into one’s head, then that was sufficient.

We worked hard. We overcame monumental challenges: Terrorists. Ancient kings. The Basilisk. We’ve earned this. We’ve earned our happily ever after.

The only thing that Arthur kept coming back around to, though, was that “happily ever after” was a self-contradictory statement, like “jumbo shrimp.” How was “ever after” supposed to be happy?

What did one do when boredom set in?

One kept his big mouth shut, is what one did.

Arthur slid out of bed, padding naked and noiselessly to the head. There he attended to business, then stopped to study himself—really study himself—in the mirror for the first time in several months. Since they’d embarked on their extended two-person ocean voyage to nowhere aboard a forty-six-foot motor-sailing yacht that could operate under wind power or with a motor as the occasion dictated, Arthur hadn’t been working especially hard on his tonsorial upkeep. His brown hair was shaggy, and his beard had lost its fine line and was looking decidedly unkempt.

“Not exactly royal, is it,” he muttered to himself.

He hesitated a moment, then scrounged around in the small bathroom area until he found his straight-edged razor. Briskly applying some cream, he carefully went over the edges of his beard until he had trimmed them into a fine line once more. He congratulated himself on doing so without once cutting himself. Once upon a time, the steady rocking of the ship would have been more than enough to guarantee that he’d likely slit his own throat.

Not that he was inexperienced in seafaring matters. As Lord of Camelot, he had had a navy at his disposal, and more than once had taken command at the helm of a warship. Plus, as a lad, he’d undergone a couple of lengthy voyages and thoroughly learned his way around the fundamentals of seamanship. That knowledge had not left him, even after all these centuries. In fact, he felt almost guilty over how much easier it was managing this vessel—which he’d dubbed the good ship
Malory
—than the ones he’d cut his sailing teeth on. Still, it had taken him a little while to reacquire his sea legs, but he’d managed. He’d always managed.

He wiped off the last dabs of shaving cream and tossed on a pair of shorts and a light shirt before heading up to the deck. Since it was just he and Gwen, clothing wasn’t really a requirement. But there was enough of what Gwen referred to as “old school” thinking in him that he couldn’t bring himself to just trot around buck naked all the time, or have Gwen similarly unattired. “What fun would it be when the intent is to have fun?” he had asked Gwen when she had broached the subject. She had simply laughed, called him quaint, and never mentioned it again.

The salt air of the placid Pacific Ocean hit his nostrils as soon as he got topside. He stood in the prow, his hands upon his hips like a latter day Peter Pan, and breathed it in. The ocean spread around him like a sheet of blue-green glass, with no one around for as far as he could see.

He clambered up and over and began to unfurl the sail. Having checked the compass to ascertain their whereabouts, he sent the ship cruising east. There was a small, underpopulated island where the natives were always happy to see them. Arthur and Gwen stopped by every now and then when they felt like talking to someone other than themselves. The natives’ English wasn’t especially good, and they had never seen either a television or newspaper, so they didn’t especially care about the fact that the former president and first lady swung by once in a while. Still, it was a nice time to interact, not to mention stock up on freshwater.

And it was pleasant.

Pleasant.

“That’s my life now. Pleasant,” said Arthur to no one. He rolled the word around on his tongue, said it very slowly. “Pleeeeeasaaant.” It rhymed with “peasant,” which he wasn’t especially happy about.

He stood next to the harpoon gun for a long moment, fingering it longingly, his eyes seeking something that he might be able to use it on. A passing shark, perhaps. That would be nice. A big one, something that could give him a bloody challenge. Hell, if he saw one, then, just to make it interesting, he could run back down, fetch Excalibur, leap into the water, and take the creature on in its own environment. That seemed more sporting somehow, rather than standing safely upon a deck and letting fly with a spear from a distance. Granted, it would give Gwen fits, since she’d be petrified at the thought of Arthur’s being devoured by sharks, leaving her to fend for herself single-handedly on a yacht in the middle of nowhere. But even so…

It was moot, in any event. He saw nothing. Nothing challenging, at any rate, or available to him. A school of dolphins was passing in the near distance, but he ignored them. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, nailing a passing porpoise early in their cruise and hauling it in, only to have Gwen fairly screaming at him, “You killed
Flipper
?” That put an end to that.

Stepping away from the harpoon, he unspooled a fishing line and tossed it into the wake of the ship. Then he flopped down onto his fishing chair and waited to see if something would come along and grab the bait. They had fruit and various breadstuffs for breakfast, but the sportsman in him fancied the notion of catching something for whatever meals he could.

He lost track of how long he sat there. All he knew was that time passed, and some more time, then the footfall from behind him told him that Gwen was approaching him. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at her as she approached, drawing her white robe tightly around herself. The weather was balmy, but the breeze was stiff, and could be cutting this early in the morning.

Gwen brushed her hair out of her eyes and came up behind Arthur as he turned his attention back to the fishing line. “Morning, love,” she said, draping her arms around him.

“Morning.”

She kissed him on the cheek. Her lips remained there for a brief time, longer than an ordinary kiss would require, and he heard her mutter a thoughtful “Hunh.”

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She straightened up and went to the railing, staring out at the same balmy vista that he had been studying.

“Sleep okay?”

“Slept fine. Everything’s fine.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you quite certain?”

“Yes,” she said.

Which, as Arthur knew all too well, meant no. He knew his wife, however, and was certain that she would get around to telling him what was on her mind sooner or later. It was just a matter of which one it would be.

As it happened, it was later.

Gwen had gone through most of the day in a mood that wasn’t exactly unresponsive, but neither was it especially chatty. Arthur informed her that he had made an executive decision and had set their ship in the direction of Bogo Pogo, which was the name she’d come up with for the island. He expected they’d arrive there within two to three days, presuming the weather held up. Gwen, wearing a white two-piece bathing suit and stretched out on a towel, sunning herself, displayed little to no enthusiasm, but simply said, “Okay, that’s fine.”

When he did wind up catching some fish, Gwen took them down to the galley without comment. She had developed quite a bit of expertise when it came to scaling and gutting fish, and she prepared their midday meal with her customary expertise. Arthur complimented her repeatedly on the meal, but all she did was smile slightly and nod, and nothing much beyond that. Arthur sighed inwardly and continued to wait with the patience of someone who literally had nothing better to do
but
wait.

At one point an airplane, a twin-engine prop job, appeared over the horizon. “Gwen!” Arthur called, and had to repeat her name a couple of times before she awoke, having dozed off while sunning herself. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him questioningly, but then heard the distant buzz of the airplane. He didn’t have to say anything further. She immediately gathered her gear and went down into the cabin, out of sight. Arthur continued to fish as if nothing was unusual. The plane passed by, never coming closer than a mile or so away. Still, better safe than sorry.

“All clear!” he called to her.

She came up from below, wearing her robe once more. There was a look of resolve on her face as she walked over to Arthur and dropped down cross-legged onto the deck. She looked up at him, and said, “You’re bored. Bored and frustrated.”

“I am neither!” he protested.

Gwen laughed at that, shaking her head. “You know…you always made such a point of stating that you didn’t lie. I always figured that it was this major moral imperative on your part. Now I don’t think so. Now I think it’s simply because you completely suck at lying.”

“I do not suck,” he said with that archness that always sent Gwen into hysterics whenever he used coarse vernacular.

This time, at least, she managed to restrain herself somewhat. “You do so suck at lying. Ohhh, don’t feel bad”—and she ran a hand across his cheek—“that’s a good thing. If you were skilled at lying, you wouldn’t be the Arthur I’ve come to know and love.”

“I shall take that as a compliment,” he told her.

“Well, good, because it was intended as such.” She pulled on his hand, indicating that she wanted him to join her on the deck. He made sure the fishing line was secured and did so, crossing his legs in imitation of hers. It wasn’t easy, though, and he felt a bit of stiffness in his thigh. He rubbed the cramp out as best he could. “Arthur,” she said, resting her hand upon his, “don’t even bother to deny it. I know you’re bored.”

“Not with you. Never with you.”

“I know that,” she said confidently. “But Arthur…my God, you’re a warrior king. A world leader. You’re built for quests and conquests. You’re made for great things.”

“And is this not a great thing?” asked Arthur. “This, here. You and me, together, at peace.”

“You strike me as the sort who believes that ‘at peace’ should be saved for when people really are ‘at peace.’ As in ‘rest in.’ Know what I’m saying?”

“That’s true to some degree,” he admitted. “But Gwen, you have to understand that—”

“What? What do I have to understand?”

He turned his hand around so that it was atop hers. “Gwen…I sat in a cave for centuries,
centuries
, recovering from the wound I sustained from my bastard son, Mordred. And in all that time, even as I was reading and studying and healing, and surviving decade after decade thanks to Merlin’s magic…in all that time, I wasn’t thinking about world leadership. I wasn’t thinking about quests. I was thinking about you. About the Gwen whom I had left behind and knew that I would never see again. And then I returned, Merlin releasing me and sending me into New York City to seek out my political fortunes. And I found you. My Gwen, reincarnated, her spirit living again within you. Finding you again…that was the
true
miracle of my life. Then, after I became president, and that damnable terrorist sniper cut you down with his cowardly attack, I thought I’d lost you a second time and was damned near ready to die myself.”

“And you found the Holy Grail,” she said. “And healed me.”

“I did that, yes. Well…I had some help…”

“And now…what?” Gwen asked. “Where do we go from here?”

“I told you. Bogo Pogo…”

“Arthur!”
She reached over and stroked his chin, her gaze fixed upon the lower sections of his face. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice. You trimmed your beard.”

“What of it? I did it for you. You shave your legs for me, so I trim my beard for you. What difference does it make? It’s no major thing…”

“I know. It’s a minor thing. But it suggests major things. It suggests that…”

“That what?”

“That you want to return to the world. Be of it rather than simply in it. That you want to find a way back to bigger and better things. You know…the things you were meant to accomplish.”

“That claptrap is Merlin’s song, Gwen, not mine,” he said. “He’s the huge believer in my having a major role to play and being put on this Earth to accomplish great things. Me, I believe in free will, along with the right to accomplish only that which I desire to do. Let others run their lives as if they are guided by destiny. Not I. Without free will, what else is there?”