Knight Life (45 page)

    
Arthur didn't need to ask. Even though the other knight was helmed, Arthur recognized him. He smiled unpleasantly. “Hello, Modred,” he called back. “Come to wish me success in my new career?”

    
“I have come to put an end to you, Pendragon. You, and your damned notions of a New Camelot.”

    
There was no doubt in the crowd's collective mind who the bad guy was in this little scenario. Modred was roundly booed. It made no impression on him as he drew his sword and pointed it at Arthur. “Well, Pendragon? Do you dare fight me? Or will you be revealed to all here as the coward that you are?”

    
There were yells and catcalls as someone shouted out, “Teach him a lesson, Arthur! Clean his clock for him!” And the crowd, which thought it was watching another staged event, took up the encouragement.

    
Gwen looked at Arthur with rising concern. “Not . . .
the
Modred ...”

    
“Only in the sense that I'm
the
Arthur. Yes, my dear, it's him, my own bastard son, come to call. It would be rude to turn him away.”

    
Arthur started to rise and Gwen put a hand on his arm. “Arthur, please. Don't do this.”

    
“Gwen, you said it yourself: Sometimes we have to give the people what they want.”

    
“But they think it's an act, like the joust! Modred really wants to kill you!”

    
“Do you see this?” He pushed back his hair on the nape of his neck. There was a long, ugly scar angling up toward the back of his head, partly obscured by his hair. “He gave
me this scar when he almost sliced my head in twain. Centuries ago.”

    
“That doesn't matter. None of it matters.”

    
“Highness,” said Percival grimly, “let me take him. Let me champion you. You don't have to do this.”

    
His answer was simple but elegant. “Yes. I do.”

    
He reached down and picked up his helmet—similar to Modred's, but with a more rounded top. As he began to put it on, the crowd roared its approval.

M
ERLIN, ON THE
other side of the field, froze in horror as he saw Arthur descend from the royal box, Excalibur already drawn from its sheath. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “The great fool. We can put all of that nonsense behind us, and he still insists on playing the warrior king.” He started to make his way through the crowd, urgently.

A
RTHUR CARRIED A
shield on his left arm, as did Modred. It was wood covered with leather, and it was formidable. Under the helmet his face was set in grim lines of determination. In his right hand he held Excalibur with such ease that you'd never expect it would take an exceptionally strong man to wield it at all with two hands, much less one.

    
They faced each other. The sun was overhead. Arthur circled slowly while speaking in a conversational tone of voice. “What do you say to a son who has tried to kill you?”

    
“How about, ‘Nice try,' “ Modred replied.

    
“Nice try.”

    
“My next try will be nicer!” snarled Modred, and he charged. He took three steps forward and immediately staggered back, blinded by the glare of the sun. Arthur, who hadn't moved, grinned and said, “I could have killed
you just then, son. First rule of battle—make certain that your opponent's eyes are in the sun, not yours.”

    
Modred attacked again, barreling forward and swinging his sword. Arthur sidestepped the charge completely, and as Modred went past, swatted him on the rump with the flat of Excalibur's blade. The crowd roared. “Come now, Modred. Let's end this nonsense,” said Arthur reasonably. “You don't have a prayer.”

    
“No, Arthur. It's you who have no prayer. But you're too stupid to know it yet.”

    
Modred came forward, sword swinging like a windmill. It bit deep into Arthur's shield. Arthur cut across with Excalibur, fully expecting to slice Modred's shield completely in half. Instead Excalibur glanced off the shield without even so much as making an impression.

    
Arthur was clearly taken aback by it. Modred enjoyed the small victory. “Found something your precious blade can't cut through? Here's something else.” Modred's sword flashed and Arthur parried the blow directly, rather than taking the force of it on his shield. The two blades clanged together. Excalibur should have cut the other sword off at the hilt. It did not.

    
They separated and stepped back from each other. Arthur was now a bit more wary. His superiority to Modred in fighting skills was not at issue in his mind. But these weapons were on a par with his own, and that bore further investigation.

    
“You like my toys?” crowed Modred. “They're presents, Arthur. A legacy if you will. A gift . . . from your beloved sister.”

    
His own armor was beginning to feel heavy on him. He grated, “Come on. Are you planning on talking me to death, or are you going to fight?” Fiercely, summoning all the power at his command, Arthur attacked.

* * *

M
ERLIN CLIMBED INTO
the reviewing stand, next to Gwen, who was biting her lip. Percival was standing there, watching the proceedings as well. “Gwen,” demanded Merlin, “what in hell is going on? How could you let Arthur get himself mixed up in some stupid fight?”

    
“How was I supposed to stop him?” asked Gwen reasonably. “You think I want him out there? He wouldn't listen to me or Percival,” and Percival nodded in confirmation. She continued, “When Arthur gets an idea in his head, nothing can dissuade him.”

    
“Tell me about it,” said Merlin mournfully. “Still, I don't like this one bit.” His voice trailed off, and Gwen turned to him in alarm.

    
“Merlin, what's wrong?”

    
“I smell poison.”

    
“What? What do you mean?”

    
He grabbed up the cup, smelled it. “Who drank from this?”

    
It was Buddy who spoke up. “His highness did. Elvis brought it to him.”

    
“It was just regular brew,” Elvis protested.

    
“Well, it's not anymore,” said Merlin.

    
And Gwen looked out at the field where the two men were battering at each other with swords as the full measure of what she was hearing dawned on her. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

A
RTHUR WAS FULLY
on the offensive now. He drove down hard on Modred, Excalibur pounding on Modred's shield again and again. Huge chunks of the shield flew as Modred was not even able to mount a defense to slow Arthur for a moment. Back, back down the field Arthur sent Modred. And then he drew back Excalibur for another blow, brought down the sword, and totally misjudged the distance. Modred dodged, and Arthur
swung at empty air. The miss sent him off balance, and he stumbled and almost fell. Only his warrior's reflexes saved him from tripping and hitting the ground, but by the time he recovered Modred was upon him. Modred swung hard, and Arthur took the brunt of the blow on his shield. He felt the impact far more than he should have, the blow sending vibrations of pain along his left arm. Surprised, he wheeled back, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He was sweating so heavily it was pouring into his eyes. His vision was starting to fuzz over and he felt a ringing in his ears. He couldn't understand it. Lord knew the armor was heavy, but certainly he wasn't this out of shape.

    
Modred attacked and they alternated now, Modred slamming at Arthur's shield, Arthur hacking at Modred's. And this time, step-by-step as they exchanged blow after blow, it was Arthur who was beginning to retreat. The crowd shouted encouragement, roared its approval for Arthur's bravery and catcalled their disapproval for Modred. They were having the time of their lives, because after all, they knew the whole thing was rigged ahead of time and that Arthur would triumph.

    
Arthur's right arm was starting to feel heavy. Lifting Excalibur became more and more of a burden. His legs were like two lead weights. Each blow from Modred's sword felt stronger than the one before. And then Arthur stumbled, falling back on one knee. Modred came in fast, swinging hard, and his sword sheered Arthur's shield in two. Quickly Arthur dropped the crumbling remains of his shield, gripped Excalibur with both hands, and using it as a crutch, drew himself to his feet. He swung Excalibur back and around with all the force he could muster. Modred parried the blow with his sword and it glanced off and struck Modred's shield, which shattered. Modred tossed it aside, gripping his sword with two hands as well.

    
They stood there facing each other, a moment frozen in time.

* * *

M
ERLIN, DO SOMETHING!”
Gwen cried out. “Merlin . . . Percival . . . !”

    
“I can't interfere,” Merlin said firmly. “Nor any of you. Arthur would never forgive us.”

    
“It won't matter if he's dead!”

    
“Damn you woman, don't rob him!” Merlin warned her. “If he lives, it's his life, if he dies, it's his death. His pride may be foolish, but it's his.”

    
“It's macho bullshit!” Gwen shot back. “When you needed help, I saved you!”

    
“Yes. But he's a better man than I am,” Merlin told her. “But remember, I never said that.”

M
ODRED FEINTED TO
the left, then brought his sword swinging in low to the right. Arthur tried to block the blow and failed. Modred's sword bit deep into Arthur's ribs. Arthur moaned and went down to one knee, and Modred stepped back, his blade tinted red. Gasping, Arthur clutched at the wound, his face deathly white beneath his helmet.

    
Instead of pressing the attack, Modred stood there, admiring the damage. “How does it feel, Arthur?” he crowed. “How does it feel to take the pain instead of inflicting it for once? Want to know why you're feeling so tired? Because I poisoned you, dear brother. That's why.”

    
Gasping for breath, Arthur looked up. His voice was a harsh whisper as he said, “Morgan?”

    
“My, we are the perceptive one. Modred had the spirit, but not the will. I've provided him both. Gaze on the face of the one who hates you beyond death itself.” Modred lifted his visor, and it was Modred's face underneath, but the eyes, the expression, was that of Morgan Le Fey. “I've always loved you, Arthur. A sister loves her brother. And you always kill the one you love. You're going to die,
Arthur. The only question is whether it's going to be from the blade or from the blood.”

    
Modred lowered his visor, gripped his sword firmly and swung at Arthur's head.

    
Arthur blocked it. Hilt to hilt, Arthur retorted in Mod-red's face, “You forgot to mention boredom. I might die of that, with you as an opponent.” And he shoved Modred back.

    
Modred was visibly surprised. “I didn't think you had enough strength left in you for a last show of bravado.”

    
“You'll find I'm full of surprises,” said Arthur, a grim smile on his lips. His mouth curled back in a sneer. “You're pathetic. You couldn't even beat me fairly, you had to try and poison me. Well, it didn't work.”

    
“I—I saw you drink the poison,” stammered Modred.

    
“Perhaps you did,” Arthur said. “And perhaps I switched the mugs.” And without giving Modred a chance to think, Arthur attacked.

    
He did not allow himself to feel the pain. He refused to acknowledge that his arms were dead weight, that Excalibur had become unwieldy. He refused to acknowledge that he was dying. He drove Modred back, back across the vast lawn, toward an upward slope where there were rocks embedded in the side. The great sword Excalibur came faster instead of slower. The speed of Arthur's blows increased. The crowd went wild as Modred retreated farther and farther before Arthur's savage onslaught. Blood pumped furiously from Arthur's wound. The left side of Arthur's surcoat was stained red. The crowd saw it and applauded the impressive special effect.

    
Arthur grew stronger.

    
“It's impossible!” screamed Modred.

    
“This is all impossible!” said Arthur. “We all are! And you'll never defeat me, Morgan. Even if you kill me, you'll never defeat me.”

    
They spun in a semicircle, and Modred squinted.

    
“Now what did I tell you about the sun?” said Arthur,
and brought Excalibur down with every bit of strength he had left.

    
He lost his grip on Excalibur. The mighty sword flew from his hands and landed on the rocky incline. Arthur stumbled, hit the ground, gasping, clutching at his wound. Under his helmet his features were twisted in pain. The poison running through his system, weighted down by his armor, his wound an agonizing pain in his side, Arthur could not rise. Instead he half staggered, half crawled toward Excalibur.