Legend

EPILOGUE

Gawain was dead, his ka destroyed. Mordred had been finished off by Morgana and she had passed the Grail to Merlin.

Atop Avalon, thick clouds were gathering over the island, lightning flickering, followed seconds later by thunder. At the very top of the tor, there was now a stone abbey, with one tall tower. Next to the abbey, a dozen men in armor were gathered round their leader who lay next to the tower’s east wall.

Arthur was dying, of that there was no doubt among the few surviving men. The wounds were too deep, the loss of blood too great. Despite the king’s weakened state, his right hand still firmly held the pommel of his sword Excalibur. Arthur lay on his back, his armor dented and battered. His eyes, bright blue, stared up at the dark heavens.

Several of the knights were looking to the east, in the direction of Camlann. Arthur’s knights had drawn him back from the front lines, as Mordred’s had also done with their own leader. Again and again, the armies charged until the battlefield was strewn with the dead and dying. Few on either side were still alive when they left. War-hardened though they were, none of the knights had ever seen such bloodlust descend on both sides in a battle, not even when they had fought the crazed Scotsmen of the north. But that day noquarter had been given, wounded had been slain where they lay, unarmored auxiliaries hacked to pieces, suited knights pounded to death, blades slammed through visors of helpless knights lying on their backs or under the armpit where they could get through the armor.

None on the tor knew who had won or if the battle was even over yet. Shortly after the king had been seriously wounded by Mordred, these men, the core of the Round Table, had placed Arthur on a pallet and dragged him away while the battle still raged. No courier had since come with word of victory or defeat.

They felt the dark, rolling clouds overhead threatening a vicious storm to be a portent even though Merlin was not there to read the signs. Where the sorcerer had gone the day before the battle was a mystery and there were many who cursed his name. Regardless, they knew the Age of Camelot was done and the darkness of barbarism and ignorance would descend once more on England.

The knights turned in surprise as the thick wooden door in the side of the abbey creaked opened. They had pounded on the door without success when they’d first arrived by boat thirty minutes earlier. In the now open doorway, a man was framed by light from behind. Robed in black, the man’s hands were empty of weapons, his face etched with age, his hair silver. He was breathing hard, as if he had come a long way. Despite his nonthreatening appearance the knights stepped aside as he gestured for them to part and allowed him access to the king, all except the knight closest to Arthur.

“Are you the Fisher-King?” Percival asked as the man came close. He was always the boldest in strange situations or when the king was threatened. Percival’s armor was battered and blood seeped from under his left arm, where a dagger had struck. His right hand gripped his sword, ready to defend Arthur, to atone for not taking the blow that had felled the king. He was a stout man, not tall, but broad of shoulders, dark hair plastered to his head with sweat, a thin red line along one cheek, where a blade had struck a glancing blow.

The stranger paused. “No, I am not a king.”

“Are you a monk?” Percival persisted, leery of allowing a stranger next to the king.

“You may call me that.”

Percival looked over the man’s cloak, noted the trim on the ends of the sleeves, the chain around his neck. “You dress like Merlin. Are you one of the priests of the old religion, the tree worshippers? A sorcerer of the dark arts?”

The man paused. “My line has been here on what you call Avalon since the dawn of time. But we worship no Gods and practice no sorcery.”

“You’re a Druid?” Percival persisted. “It is said the Druids have been on this island forever. That they sing the eternal song here, but we found no one when we arrived.”

“There is no time for your questions.” The man knelt, placing his wrinkled hands over the king’s bloodstained ones.

“Can you heal him?” Percival was now the only one close, the others near the edge of the tor, attention split between what was happening to their king and the water to the east, from which news of victory or the promise of death in defeat would come. They had no doubt that if Mordred’s side won, there would be no mercy.

“The healers — such as they are — will arrive shortly, I believe,” the monk said.

“What healers?” Percival demanded.

“These are things beyond you. You waste precious time. Let me speak to the king in private for a moment — to give him absolution in a way only he will understand.”

“You said you worshipped no God,” Percival argued.

“You brought him here, let me do what is necessary,” the monk snapped. He raised a hand toward Percival and struggled to control his voice. “I mean him no harm.”

Arthur spoke for the first time. “Leave us, Percival. There is nothing to fear from this man.”

Reluctantly, Percival joined the other knights.

The monk leaned close so that only Arthur could hear his words. “Give me the key.”

Arthur’s eyes turned to the man. “You are the Watcher of this island. It was one of your people who started all this. Merlin.”

Brynn shook his head. “Myrddin, we called him. He is a traitor to the oath he swore. He is not of my people any longer. You, of all people, should know well how there can be traitors among a close-knit group, and my group has been scattered for many, many years.”

“What do you want?” Arthur asked.

“Give me the key. I will keep it safe.”

“My people will keep the key safe,” Arthur replied, his eyes shifting up to the dark clouds. “Merlin gave it to me to offset the Grail. It was never intended to be used and it hasn’t been. You don’t even know what it really does.”

“Merlin never should have unearthed the key or the Grail,” Brynn said. “He is one of those that upset the balance in the first place.”

“I tried to do good,” Arthur said. “To rectify what was done. To restore the balance.”

There was a commotion among the knights watching the water. Cries of alarm that Brynn and Arthur could hear.

“And what if the others get here first?” Brynn hissed. “A group bearing Mordred’s insignia has just been sighted. Would you give them Excalibur and what it controls? I promise to keep the key safe inside the tor. They will never find it. And when your people come at the anointed time, I will giveit to them. Remember, we only watch, we do not choose sides.”

“No.”

Brynn placed his hand on Arthur’s forehead. “You will be dead soon.”

“I will not give it to you.”

Brynn’s hand slid down and with two fingers he snatched at Arthur’s left eye before the king could react. Between the fingers dangled a small sliver of blue, a contact lens, incongruous with the armor and other accouterments. Arthur blinked and his eyes opened wide, revealing a red pupil within a red iris in his left eye. The pupil was a shade darker than the iris and elongated vertically like a cat’s.

Brynn cocked his head, indicating the knights. “I will show them what you really are. You cannot allow that. What good you have done, what you are so proud of, would be washed away with that truth. You will be remembered as a monster, not a king. Not as the leader of the Round Table, which you worked so hard to establish.”

Arthur closed his eyes, pain finally beginning to show on his face. “What about the Grail?”

“Mordred’s men had it briefly. He too lies dying. One of my order was in their camp and she recovered the Grail. She will take it far from here. We will return everything to the way it was.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I swear on my ring”—Brynn held a metal ring in front of the king’s face, an eye, a human one, etched on the surface— “and on my order and on my son, the next Brynn, the next Watcher, that I tell you the truth.”

One of the knights cried out from the tor’s tower, warning that the group bearing Mordred’s colors was about to land.

Arthur’s voice was low, as if he were speaking to himself. “That is all I sought by coming to England. To reinstate order, and maybe help your people a little.”

“Then let me finish it,” Brynn argued. “Let me restore the truce, Artad’s Shadow.”

The king started at the mention of his true identity. “You must keep that secret. I have worked very hard for a very long time to keep that secret from men.”

“I will. If you give me the key. There is not much time. I must get back inside the tor to keep Mordred’s men from getting the key.”

Arthur’s hand released its grip. “Take it.”

Brynn placed Excalibur under his robe, tight against his body. As he prepared to stand, Arthur grabbed his arm. “Keep your word, Watcher. You know I will be back.”

Brynn nodded. “I know that. It is written that your war will come again, not like this, a local thing, but covering the entire planet. And when that happens, I know you will return.”

A weary smile crossed Arthur’s lips. “It is a war beyond the planet, Watcher. Beyond the planet in ways you could not conceive of. Your people still know so little. Even on Atlantis your ancestors knew nothing of reality, of the universe. Merlin was foolish to try to take the Grail. Its time has not yet come.”

“We know enough,” Brynn said. He stood and quickly walked through the open door, which swung shut behind him with a solid thud.

Percival approached the king. “Sire, the enemy approaches. We must move you.”

Arthur shook his head, his eyes closed tightly. “No. I will stay here. All of you go. Spread the story of what we tried to do. Tell of the good, of the code of honor. Leave me here. I will be gone shortly.”

The protests were immediate, Percival’s foremost among them. “Sire, we will fight Mordred’s traitors to the death. Our lives for yours.”

“No. It is my last command and you will obey it as you have obeyed all my other commands.”

Only then did Percival notice the sword was gone. “Excalibur! Where is it?”

“The monk has it.” Arthur’s voice was very low. “He will keep it safe until it is needed again. Until I return. And I will. I promise you that. Go now! Escape while you can and tell the world of the good deeds we did.”

One by one, the surviving knights bid their king farewell and slipped into the storm, disappearing over the western side of the hill until only Percival remained. He came to the king, kneeling next to him. “Sire.”

Arthur didn’t open his eyes. “Percival, you must leave also. You have been my most faithful knight, but I release you from your service.”

“I swore an oath,” Percival said, “never to abandon you. I will not now, my lord.”

“You must. It will do you no good to stay. You cannot be here when they come for me.”

“I will fight Mordred’s men.”

“I do not speak of those slaves who blindly obey with no free will.”

Percival frowned. “When who comes for you, then?”

Arthur reached up and grabbed his knight’s arm. “There is something you can do, Percival. Something I want you to do. A quest.”

Percival placed his hand over the blood-spattered one of his king. “Yes, lord.”

“Search for the Grail.”

“The Grail is but a legend—” Percival began, but Arthur cut him off.

“The Grail is real. It is—” The king seemed to be searching for the right words. “It is the source of all knowledge. To one who knows its secret, it brings immortality. It is beyond anything you have experienced, what any man has experienced.”

A glimmer of hope came alive in the despair that had shadowed Percival’s eyes since removing Arthur from the field of battle. “Where is this Grail, my lord? Where should I search?”

“That you must discover on your own. It is spoken of in many lands and has traveled far — here and there — over the years. But trust me, it does exist. It will be well guarded. And if you find it—” Arthur paused.

“Yes, my lord?”

“If you find it, you must not touch it. You must guard it as you have guarded me. Will you do that for me?”

“I do not want to abandon you, my lord.”

“You will not be abandoning me. I go to a better place. Do as I have ordered.”

Slowly and reluctantly, Percival stood, bent over, his hand still in the king’s. “I will begin the quest you have commanded me to pursue.”

Arthur tightened his grip. “My knight, there is something you must remember in your quest.”

“Yes, lord?”

“You can trust no one. Deception has always swirled about the Grail. Be careful.” He released Percival. “Go now! I order you to go!”

Percival leaned over farther and lightly kissed his king’s forehead, then stood and departed.

Arthur was alone on the top of the tor. Only then did he open his eyes once more. He could hear yells from the eastern slope — Mordred’s mercenaries and slaves climbing the steep hillside, but his eyes remained focused on the sky above, waiting.

A metallic golden orb, three feet in diameter, darted out ofthe clouds and came to an abrupt halt, hovering ten feet above Arthur. It stayed there for a few seconds, then without a sound, sped to the east. There were flashes of light in that direction, screams of surprise and terror, then no more noise from the rebel warriors. Arthur was now the only one alive on the Tor.

The orb came back and hovered directly overhead. Arthur looked past it, waiting, holding on to life. Finally, a silver disk, thirty feet wide, flat on the bottom, the upper side sloping to a rounded top, floated silently out of the clouds.

The disk touched down on the tor’s summit, next to the abbey. A hatch on the top opened and two tall figures climbed out. The Ones Who Wait made their way down the sloping side. The shape inside their one-piece white suits indicated they were female, but their eyes were not human but the same red in red as Brynn had revealed Arthur’s to be.

They walked to where the king lay, one standing on either side. They pulled back their hoods, revealing fiery red hair, cut tight against their skulls. Their skin was pale, ice-white, unblemished.

“Where is the key?” one asked, the voice low-pitched.

“A Watcher took it,” Arthur said. “I gave it to him. We must hide it to restore the truce.”

“Are you sure, Artad’s Shadow?” one of the women asked. “We can search for it. The Watchers cannot be trusted. Merlin was one of their order.”

“I am sure,” Arthur cut her off. “It is the way I want it to be. Merlin, no matter what evil he stirred up, was trying to do a good thing. Have you heard of the Grail’s fate?”

“Mordred’s mercenaries had it, but a Watcher in the area took it. We can take the Grail from him.”

“No.”

The two creatures exchanged glances.

“The truce must be restored,” Arthur continued. “It is not yet time.” Arthur slumped back, satisfied that at least that part of what Brynn had told him was true. He knew he could not tell them of the quest he had given Percival. It was the only thing he could think of to get his favorite knight off the tor. If Percival had been there when the others arrived, he would have suffered the same fate as Mordred’s men. Arthur knew his knight would never track down the Grail, but it gave the man a purpose and he had found that such a quest worked well with men like that.

“And Aspasia’s Shadow?” Arthur asked.

“Mordred too dies in this life, but Guides are there, as we are here, to pass Aspasia’s spirit on.”

A spasm of pain passed through Arthur’s body. “Let’s be done with it. I am very tired. Remember, I am only a Shadow also.”

The two looked at each other once more, red eyes meeting, then the first nodded and spoke. “The spirit of Artad must move on,”

“The spirit of Artad must pass on,” the second said.

Arthur nodded. “My spirit must pass on.”

The second knelt, a short black blade in her hand. It easily sliced through the dented armor on Arthur’s chest with one smooth stroke, revealing the padded shirt underneath. With a deft flick of knife, the cloth parted, revealing his chest. Lying on the flesh was a gold medallion, shaped like two arms with no body extended upward in worship. She cut through the thin chain holding the medallion and held it up for the other woman — and Arthur — to see.

“We take your spirit, the spirit of Artad,” she said to Arthur.

The king nodded weakly. “The spirit of Artad passes.” His head bowed down on his chest, his lips moving, but no sound emerging.

“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.

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.

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.”

“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 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.”

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.

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.