Morlock Night (9 page)

  "I– we– that is…" My tongue moved in confused stammering. "General Morsmere–"

  "Please." He held up his hand. "There's no need to maintain that fiction. Merlin sent you, didn't he? Or Ambrose, as you might know him. I've been expecting someone to come for some time now." His voice seemed oddly weary, rather than pleased at our arrival.

  "That's right." I inclined my head in a bow of respect. "My name is Edwin Hocker and my companion here is called Tafe. That's all. We've come to take your highness out of here."

  "'Your highness'," he said, and sighed. "Please don't burden yourself, Mr. Hocker, with the empty trappings of courtly etiquette. Arthur is all the name and title I ever wished." He rose and faced us, clutching the chair's arm for support. "And I'm afraid I must further disappoint you both. I don't think I'm going to be leaving here."

  "But, my dear sir, why not?" I stood dumbfounded at this development. Nothing was turning out as I had anticipated. Instead of being cheered at the prospect of his release, he seemed grimly displeased by it. "You know, don't you, that your England has need of you?"

  "Merdenne – as he calls himself now – has gloatingly informed me of the whole situation." Arthur drew himself a little straighter. "It is not ignorance that keeps me here. No, not ignorance, but rather the opposite. I have not lived these many lives without remembering something from each. And that knowledge wearies me." His old soldier's face seemed even older now, as though the skin were being pulled back toward the skull.

  "What– what do you mean by that?" I suddenly felt chilled, as if a wind from some dark corner of the Earth had come into the room. From the corner of my eye I could see Tafe grow pale as well.

  "I'm old," said Arthur. "Older than you could ever know. I've lived many times, and fought and died many times, and now I'm called to defend my England once more – but why?" The last word was a cry of bitterness breaking from his lips. "Did I live and die all those times so that a few children of England could grow fat while the many sweat out their drab lives in the dark holes of the cities?" His trembling hand flew toward the window, from which the dark shapes of the tenements could be seen. "And beyond our shores," he said with weary disgust. "Did I defend England so that other lands could be made to suffer our will, their people ground beneath our heel for our profit? Oh, how tarnished our English honour has become! How strong the armour that covers a rotted heart!" His mouth tightened below his burning eyes.

  "But the Morlocks," I said in desperation. "Surely, even if everything you say is true, as many Englishmen themselves would agree, surely your land deserves a better fate than that!" Stirred by emotion, I crossed the room and gripped his arm – how frail it seemed! "That light – England's light is buried, but not gone out. Would you see it die forever?"

  "If it did die," said Arthur quietly, "then this would be my final life, my final death, and I could rest at last."

  I let go of him and drew away, my breast suddenly filled with anger and shame. "Then go to your rest!" I spat out. "Englishmen will fight and die without you, no matter how lost the cause." I turned from him, but before I could take a step my shoulder was grasped by his hand.

  "Stay." His voice, though still melancholy, had a measure of, warmth in it. "I can see from you that that light is not so weak or buried so deep as I had feared." He went on as I faced him again. "If I was filled only with despair, how much easier it would be. But my heart still loves the green island beneath the dark spots of decay, my hands still raise to defend it. My bitter feelings would not be so strong if Merdenne had not contrived to weaken my nobler instincts."

  "He has… enchanted you?" The recall of our adversary to my mind stiffened the skin along my arms.

  Arthur nodded, turned and stepped – the shuffling stride of an old man! – toward the bookshelves. From its resting place atop a row of books he drew a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. "This is Excalibur," he said. "Merdenne leaves it with me as a taunt."

  I took the bundle from his hands and unswaddled the weapon. A long blade, not ornate but impressively functional. Yet it seemed unnaturally light, as though made from some inferior metal. Disturbed by this sensation, I frowned as I studied the legendary sword. Tafe stepped up beside me and looked at it lying across my hands.

  "There are runes," said Arthur. "Inscribed along the blade. From them I derive my knowledge of my true self, and the strength that accompanies that knowledge. Tell me what you see written there on the blade."

  My eyes moved along the shining length of metal. "Why… they've faded!" I gasped. "The runes are hardly more than scratches! How could these be read?" I lifted my astonished gaze to his saddened face.

  "Yes," he said mournfully. "How could they? This is Merdenne's work, and I fear it means the end of all England's hopes."

  "But couldn't Ambrose do something about it? His power is as great as Merdenne's. Surely he could find some way of reversing whatever has been done to the sword."

  Arthur slowly shook his head. "The power of Merlin is bound up with Excalibur's fate as well, though to a lesser degree. Merdenne has struck at us both through this damnable cleverness, and hobbled us beyond our capacities to set aright."

  I shook my head and bent down to pick up the cloth at my feet. "What's done can be undone," I pronounced as I straightened up, sounding braver than I felt in my heart. "It's sad to see a noble weapon like this one degraded but if it can't be restored, then perhaps a Gatling artillery piece will serve as well to convince the Morlocks of their poor judgment."

  A tired smile lit the old warrior's noble face. "Words fit for knighthood, my son, but–"

  "Come." A desperate bravado had animated my spirits. I tucked the re-wrapped sword under one arm and grasped Arthur's elbow with my other hand. Tafe stepped to his side and caught his other arm, "My lord Arthur, we've dawdled here long enough. A little perambulation is good for the heart." Between us we nearly had him off his feet as we propelled him toward the door.

  "Well," said Arthur, "I would like one more good lager before it's all too late. Merdenne serves the most wretched pale stuff."

  "A fine idea." I said with all the heartiness I could muster. "On to the public house." My hand reached for the brass knob of the door–

 

  
Merdenne tapped his fingertips upon his king and one
rook. "I must confess," he said, "that by strict logic you are
correct. The nagging hunch I act upon is completely irra
tional. But all through the game I've had this compulsion
to safeguard the king." He moved the pieces about to their
new positions. "In the Orient, though, I learned that not
all is dictated by logic." He leaned back in his chair and
regarded the board.

  
A moment of silence passed in the room, empty except
for the two chess-players, then Merdenne stiffened bolt up
right, his pale face contorted in rage. "The king!" he
shouted. "You've deceived me! Your accomplices–"

  
"Perhaps," said Ambrose mildly, "like your old friend
Suleiman, you need to learn the value of pawns."

  
With a choked cry Merdenne leaped to his feet and
dashed his fist to the centre of the chessboard, scattering
the pieces in all directions. The diners at the nearest
tables looked with shocked amazement at the reappear
ance of the two men. Merdenne's chair crashed
backwards as he ran toward the door, knocking aside a
waiter in his path.

  
Ambrose drained the last of the Latour from his glass
before he stood, dropped several bills upon the table, and
followed his double out of the restaurant.

 

But even as my hand reached for the knob, the door burst into flames. Arthur, Tafe and I drew back as one. The unnaturally bright, devouring heat of the blaze revealed its origin. "Too late!" I cried. "Merdenne is upon us!"

  "The window," said Tafe. She let go of Arthur's arm, pushed the massive wing chair to the wall, lifted and toppled it through the glass in an explosion of glittering shards. I tugged loose one of the long drapes and knotted one end to a bent section of the now empty window frame.

  As though from old habit, Arthur took command. "You go first," he said to me. "I'll need your assistance below."

  Glad to be free of the stifling heat – the one entire end of the room was by now in flames – I stepped over the sill and rapidly lowered myself down the drape, then let go and fell the last few feet to the ground.

  Arthur tossed the bundled Excalibur down to me, then half-clambered, half-slid down the drape. I caught and steadied him when he dropped the last distance. Tafe was only halfway down the drape's length when the knotted end burned free from its mooring. She fell heavily upon her back in a shower of sparks.

  I helped her to her feet and she nodded to indicate that she was all right. The three of us hurried away from the inferno that Merdenne had made of his clinic in a vain attempt to trap us. Behind us, the walls of the building began to collapse, sending gouts of dizzying heat across the red-lit lawns.

  "Here!" A voice shouted to us, carrying across the hubbub of the crowd that had gathered around the iron fence. I spotted Ambrose signalling and pointed him out to Arthur and Tafe. We turned our steps toward the spot and soon were separated from him by only the iron bars of the fence.

  A group of good-hearted young Londoners, always ready to participate in any excitement, extended their hands through the bars like steps and helped us mount over the top railing. One by one we dropped down into their midst, then were collared into a group by Ambrose. As we began to work our way from the scene of the holocaust one of the cheerful mob shouted after me. "Hey, mate! You forgot your parcel!" The fellow tossed the bundled Excalibur over the heads of his comrades. I caught it, yelled a quick thanks to him, then hurried after the others.

 
 

 
 

This was the voice that had laid out the plans for the routing of the Saxon armies from the shores of Britain. In a rough castle, a fortress of hand-hewn stone and little light, this voice had given its orders and words of encouragement to the generals who served as comrades. And outside the walls this voice had roused the common fighting man, no less comrades for their lower rank; roused them to a fighting pitch that was like the true and murderous edge upon the inscribed blade that a scarred hand raised to glisten in the sun of those heroic Fifth Century days.

  Now the voice was weaker, that of an old man, tired and weighed down with the cursed work done upon him by our adversary. In the ill-lit groggery near the river docks that Ambrose had led us to, as I sat and listened I tried to connect in my mind the old man Tafe and I had rescued with the powerful legends that were buried deep in the English soil and spirit. Was this really Arthur, the defender of Britain? Even now, after all I had seen and risked, doubt gnawed at my heart. How damnable was Merdenne's trickery that it could create such confusion! I drew my attention away from the darkness I carried inside and returned it to my comrades.

  The pretence of "General Morsmere" had been dropped by all, in contrast to the pseudonym that still clung to him who would have been more rightfully called Merlin. Perhaps this indicated something about the essential character of the two figures – forthright warrior and devious magician.

  Arthur lifted his beer with both frail hands wrapped about the mug and sipped at it. The recent exertions of his escape had left him considerably weaker than before – frighteningly so. He carefully set the beer back down on the table and continued speaking.

  "This is how it came to pass," said Arthur. "One morning in my suite at the Savoy, I awoke and found myself dizzy and sweating as if frightened by my dreams. Upon rising from my bed I discovered that I was barely able to stand due to the trembling in my limbs. The weakness advanced throughout the day, accompanied by the most soul-numbing despair I had ever felt. Finally, in an attempt to restore my spirits and fight off the spell being laid against me, I opened the secret compartment in my military chest and took out my cherished Excalibur. The devastation of my hopes was total when I found it as you have seen, diminished in weight and the sacred inscription all but blotted out. I knew then that a dread evil was upon me. Merdenne arrived with the evening's darkness and I had no strength to resist him. Soon, thanks to his arrogant boasting, I was made aware of how my strength had been leeched away." He paused to moisten his throat again.

  I glanced over at Ambrose with some unease. I had somehow expected that these two comrades of ages past, their lives so intertwined through the pages of English legend, would bear some special regard for each other and that these feelings would be apparent upon their being reunited once more. But I was unable to detect any such warmth between them. Was Ambrose so repelled by the change wrought upon his hapless friend to spurn him thus? How frail, I mused, are even the hearts of the immortals.

  "It was done with that damnable device for Travelling through Time." Arthur's voice trembled with rage. "That Machine which the Morlocks stole from its murdered inventor – a sorry fool he! With the Time Machine Merdenne was able to travel to different points in history when Excalibur was not yet come into my hands. Through his own arts he located the sword at these different times and brought each one back to this time. Three times he did this, and thus diluted my powers."