Doctor Who_ Battlefield - Marc Platt [2]
This was a trap. Some hateful witchery of Morgaine’s devising, like that with which she, in the guise of Nimue, had thought to entomb Merlin in the ice forest beneath Breceliande. Yet while the king lived, all those days of chivalry were not dead. He could rebuild his world again.
He had fought alone against worse odds than this and battled worse monsters. And everything that Merlin had taught him as a boy, everything the aged wizard and counsellor complained that he had forgotten, was coming back to him. Clear and fresh as the air after a storm. The son of the Pendragon would return. It had been foretold.
He could fight alone again.
The high walls of water above him teetered in and blocked the light. Plunged into darkness he cried out again for his sword.
A new but dim light appeared from the side. The king managed to raise himself, but the pallet on which he lay lurched as the queens lifted it from the dry-docked boat.
He watched the light approach as they neared its source, until they finally emerged into a wide and familiar hall.
The dark glossy walls rose high into the gloom. He could make out arrays of heraldic devices along the consoles that lined the wide floor. The solemn tranquillity of the place was almost tangible. It had been genetically designed to be so. It should have been like coming home.
A single shaft of light fell from the roof and illuminated a black slab of obsidian like an altar at the centre of the hall. There was a figure standing in front of the slab, silhouetted against the light. As the king’s cortege crossed the floor, their footsteps echoing back at them, the figure stretched out its arms in greeting and stepped backwards into the pool of light.
The king caught his breath in disbelief. ‘Merlin!
Against all hope...’
The wizard smiled impishly at his aged royal pupil. ‘I see you’ve been killing people again, Arthur. Another fine pickle you’ve got yourself into!’
The armour ran faster than Bedivere’s legs could carry him. His own muscles ached to tearing point as he almost fell down the bank towards the willows and skidded to a halt at the water’s edge. The boat was gone.
Staring out across the lake, he thought he glimpsed the featureless shape of the boat disappearing into the mist. He clutched his king’s sacred sword and its scabbard in his fists.
What could he do now? How could he return Excalibur?
At all costs the sword must be kept from the enemy. But there were no allies to turn to. No prisoners were being taken. All captives were being put to the sword by the victors on Mordred’s orders.
Avallion was a prison. His helm had been shattered in the battle and he could not leap through infinity to his own dimension without it. He was trapped in a cold and barbaric reality, a universe away from home and love. But he must forget his honour and hide himself, living on his wits until his mission was fulfilled. That was nothing.
Galahad had endured far worse for the Grail.
He looked out over the lake again. The mist had suddenly cleared to reveal the far bank, but there was no sign of the boat.
He heard the clank of armour and saw a group of grey knights running along the bank towards him. There were more coming from the other direction. He had nowhere to run to, but they would not have Excalibur.
Flinging aside the scabbard, he began to wade out into the water. The knights began to splash in after him, swords raised.
Powering up the tension of the hydraulic muscle in his right side armour, he lifted Excalibur high behind him.
With a yell, he pitched the sword as far out over the water as the armour would throw it. He felt a fierce stab of pain as his arm fractured, and then he was dragged back by force and found a sword at his throat.
Excalibur gleamed in the sunlight as it began to fall over the centre of the lake. Before it struck the surface, there was a flash of white and the sword vanished as if it had been snatched away by a burning fist of fire.
The arm around Bedivere’s throat wrenched back in