The Indigo King - James A. Owen [75]
“Archimedes found out about the tournament,” Thorn was saying, “and he convinced me that I needed to come and participate. I was against it at first.”
“Against the chance to be king?” asked Jack.
“Against the need to fight for it,” said Thorn. “As I understand it, the office of Arthur is to go to someone who is worthy to serve the people of the lands. I didn’t understand why there needed to be a competition to find such a person.”
“You don’t worry that someone less worthy might take the title?” John wondered.
“Why would they?” Thorn replied. “What’s the point of being in charge of the world if you don’t want to help people? Hey!” he exclaimed, running ahead. “Chaz! Race you to the stone!”
“He’s a good man,” John said as they watched him race with their companion to a large stone up ahead. “Isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Jack agreed. “He’s going to get slaughtered tomorrow.”
As night began to fall, the companions built a small fire in the lee of the stone and set up a makeshift campsite around it. Archimedes turned out to be an excellent night watchman, and an even better cook. Using recipes Chaz found in the Little Whatsit, they gathered roots and herbs from the shrubbery and used the last flagon of water and one of Reynard’s bottles to make a soup. It was thin, but tasty and warming.
With Archimedes standing guard, Thorn and Chaz soon fell asleep, but John and Jack stayed awake, talking.
“When the owl told us we were in the sixth century,” John began, “I thought maybe …”
“Hugo would be somewhere nearby?” Jack finished. “So did I. But even if he is here, how are we going to get him back? The portal is gone.”
“I know,” said John, “but I’m hoping there will be another way back. We never did find out what happened to the door from the Keep.”
“True, that,” Jack agreed. “This Thorn is an interesting boy.”
John nodded, a shadow against the stone. “He might really be Arthur—and I rather like the idea that we’re to be remembered as knights of the Crusades.”
“We will be,” said Jack, “as long as we’ve gotten here soon enough to prevent whatever it is that Hugo did to create Albion.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” John told him, settling down to try to sleep. “Plenty of time for that tomorrow.”
It was a clear statement of intent that Mordred set up his camp not around the basin of the valley, as everyone else had, but on top of the hill, adjacent to the stone table and facing the crypt of Caliburn.
There had been some fighting among the knights and nobles, particularly those who had been eliminated earliest, but it never amounted to a formal protest, much less an outright rebellion.
The assent of the Lawgiver was enough to persuade most of them that there was in fact something substantial to the claims of the mysterious new arrival.
The look on Mordred’s face was enough to convince the rest.
The fires were lit, and venison was roasted as the dinner celebrations began. It was more civilized than Hugo expected, but still more raw and primal than he was prepared for, so he and Hank retreated to their own camp to sup and discuss the day’s events.
“Mordred,” Hugo repeated for perhaps the hundredth time. “That’s amazing to me. Did you see how he silenced the crowd with little more than bravado?”
“More charisma than bravado, I’d say,” Hank replied as he crouched over the small fire, stirring the stew he’d prepared for dinner. “He certainly has some kind of history with Merlin.”
“I saw the look,” said Hugo. “That’s the other thing: the idea that ‘Arthur’ is a title. I wonder if it’s possible that one or the other is actually meant to become King Arthur? That maybe he wasn’t a separate man after all?”
Hank chuckled. “No, the Arthur is someone else,” he said mysteriously. “More than that, I’m not allowed to say. But it’s going to be very interesting to see how this all plays out.”
Hugo handed Hank their bowls. “Is your watch device working any better yet?”
“Not at all, I’m afraid,” he said, filling