Excalibur Rising (30 page)

     “We did it,” said Violet.
     “Yes, we did,” said Elaine encouragingly. “Go, before he sees us. There’s a sort of path.”
     Freddie identified the rough outlines of an old gravel road that might once have been accessible by Jeep.  He had no idea what Pearlie White would say if he wrecked the boss’s new limo, but it no longer mattered.  The blue car was close behind and the sword was still singing in his mind.
Cautiously, and then with a rapidly growing fatalistic confidence, he guided the heavy vehicle between the ruined stone walls, through the rusted farm gate and over the edge into the valley.
     At first he was able to control their descent, but then the weight of the limo began to work against him.  The wheels slipped on the gravel, and then the gravel gave way to grassy tussocks and rocks.  The steering wheel shivered and bucked in his grasp.  He jammed the engine into a lower gear and for a moment he had control.  They were nearing the valley floor.  The road seemed to be leading him towards some ruined stone buildings and he caught sight of a green vehicle tucked behind one of the buildings.  A Land Rover, he thought.  Well if they could do it…
     His left front wheel climbed up onto a rock.  He slammed on the brakes, but he was too late.  He hung onto the steering wheel feeling himself rising into the air as the car tipped over onto its side.  As the car buried itself into the ground with a scream of torn metal and shattering glass, Freddie saw something flying past them, rolling and bouncing. Elaine’s blue car was turning cartwheels as the sun reflected off its bright paint.  Then Freddie’s view of the world was extinguished as the airbag slammed explosively into his face.

CHAPTER TWENTY
Ryan
     Ryan’s horse was obstinately opposed to falling in line and following the other horses as Mordricus led his war party north.  She tossed her head, danced sideways, and tried to scrape Ryan from her back as she careened under the low hanging branches of the forested path.  In pursuit of treasure Ryan had crossed the rainbow colored mountains of Bolivia on horseback, and ridden camels in the Sahara, and he was more than a match for the wilful grey mare.  By the time they left the forest and moved out onto high heather coated hillsides they had reached an agreement.  She would continue to toss her head and roll her eyes, but she would follow in the train of Mordricus and his black stallion.
     With the mare under control, Ryan had the freedom to listen to the conversation around him.  The language was a mixture of Latin and early English and the longer he listened the more he understood.
     The war party consisted of perhaps a hundred armored knights on horseback, accompanied by their squires and their pack horses.  Along the way they met parties of peasants, some on foot, and some riding short legged shaggy ponies, all eager to respond to the call of the hilltop beacons.       
     The historian in Ryan’s soul was absorbed in all of the details of their progress through the countryside.  This, he thought, was how it had been in Britain in the 12
^th
Century, when King Stephen fought the Empress Matilda for the throne.  As darkness and anarchy spread across the land, the people of Britain, huddled in their mud and wattle huts, had watched the war parties passing by and declared that God and his angels were sleeping. And then, in midst of darkness and despair, a gate from another world had been opened and the knights of Albion had ridden into Britain, and into legend, creating the myth that the beleaguered people so desperately needed.
     Mordricus and his war party traveled through a land of ruined castles and squalid villages.  Here and there Ryan could see where a castle wall had been hastily repaired with bright new stonework, but most of the buildings showed the ravages of fire and war and long drawn out sieges. 
He could see no sign of an opposing force.  The peasants who marched beside the horsemen all seemed to be committed to Mordricus and his cause.  Where, he wondered, were Arthur’s forces?  Perhaps they were coming from another direction, making their way down from the high mountains in the far north. It seemed that Mordricus controlled the lowland hills.  Not that anyone really controlled anything, he thought, for Mordricus had said that the war could not be won unless Arthur returned.  Without Arthur and Excalibur to oppose them the army Mordricus had assembled could not win, and could not lose.  The only losers would be those who died a futile and pointless death.  Either side could win the battle, but no one could win the war.
     The mare, apparently aware that Ryan’s thoughts were elsewhere, gave a warning toss of her head and danced sideways to scrape Ryan’s right leg against a high stone wall.  He jerked her head around to show her that he was still in control, and leaned down to look at the long grazed wound on his leg.
     “You’ll never win,” said a voice in Latin. “She’s just waiting for the right moment.”
        A knight rode up beside him, his own brown gelding under perfect control. He was bareheaded, his black hair falling in curls to his shoulders. The green surcoat that he wore over his body armor was matched by the caparison on his horse.
     “She is a mist horse,” he said. “It was not kind of the prince to put you on such a horse.”
     “I’m fine,” Ryan declared, settling back into the saddle and deciding to ignore the sharp pain in his leg and the blood oozing from the long scrape made by the rock. He was certain that his wound was minor compared to the wounds normally inflicted on the knights of Albion.
     “You handle her well,” said the knight, and he smiled a snaggle-toothed smile, his yellowed teeth standing out against the darkness of his beard and moustache.  Ryan thought of Mordricus who was obviously the beneficiary of modern dentistry.  Apparently some modern amenities could survive the journey through Merlin’s portals, but not anything that could affect the balance between the warring parties.
      “There’s another mist horse behind us,” said the knight, “with the baggage train.  She’s old, and she usually gives no trouble, but she has been troublesome all day.  No doubt this one is talking to her.”
     Ryan looked down at the mare’s head.  Her ears were twitching but she was at least pointing forward and following in the general direction of the rest of the war party.
     “How can they be talking?” he asked.
     “They are a mystery,” said the knight.  “Who can say how they come and how they go?”
     “I don’t understand you,” said Ryan.
     “Ah, I was told you would understand the church language,” said the knight.
     “I understand your words,” said Ryan, “but I don’t know what you mean.  What is a mist horse?”
     “They come from a high valley north of Camlan, and we are nearing their home,” said the knight.  “Some say it is the valley of Avilion where the sisters live on the island that cannot be seen.”
     Ryan set his face in a deliberately puzzled but neutral expression.  Here were words that he wanted to hear.  Here was information about Elaine.  He decided not to ask questions, not to push for information. Too many questions and the knight would realize that Ryan knew more than he was willing to admit.  Better to just to let the man talk.
     Ryan smiled encouragingly at the knight. “Interesting,” he said.
     Obviously glad to have an audience for his speculations, the knight smiled back, again displaying the lack of dentistry that marred an otherwise handsome face.
     “You have come from beyond the gate,” he said.
     “Yes, I have” said Ryan. “Have you ever been through the gate?”
     The knight laughed derisively. “Only those with the blood of the Pendragons may pass through the gates,” he said, “but we know of them.  We also know,” he added, “that many gates are now closed.  The prince gives us very little information, but I understand that even he cannot find the oldest of the gates.  They are gone.  Some say it is because Merlin has retreated into the mists.”
     “About the mists…” said Ryan turning the knight’s attention back to the mystery of the horses.
     “We know that the horses move between worlds,” said the knight. “Sometimes they are in the misty valley, and sometimes they are not visible.  It is thought that they graze on the other side, but no one has found the gate through which they pass.”
     “Surely if someone just kept an eye on them…” said Ryan.
     “The valley is mystical place,” said the knight.
     Ryan’s mare tossed her head and took a couple of steps off the path.  He brought her back in line with a sharp tap of his heels.
     He mulled over his Latin vocabulary, aware that his conversational skills were limited, and his speech was stilted, but he needed to keep his companion talking.  He was receiving information that Mordricus would never offer. 
     “Why do you use the mist horses,” he asked, “they’re obviously not well-suited?  How do you even capture them.”
     “Some were captured long ago,” said the knight, “and we breed from them.  They are fast and intelligent, but in every generation we find some who are like the one you are riding.  They are compelled to return to their home.  The valley is close by, she can probably scent her home pastures. If you give that she-devil her head, she will throw you off and you will not see her again.  Tie her tight when we make camp.  As for the old one back there, I think this might be the last cart that she will pull; she will not see the morning.  The baggage train is no place for a wild horse.”
     A blast from a trumpet interrupted the conversation.  The green knight stood up in his stirrups and looked ahead.  “We have arrived,” he said.
     “Arrived where?” asked Ryan.
     “I cannot say,” said the knight. “I have no knowledge of this place, but we are told that this is where we will win our final battle.”
     The line of men and horses had come to a restless halt with harnesses jingling, and hooves stomping.  Mordricus rode back along the column and stopped alongside Ryan.
     “Well done,” he said, and it was a relief for Ryan to hear modern English.  “I guess you meant what you said about being able to ride.”
     “She’s spirited,” said Ryan, not wishing to reveal that he knew the source of his mount’s high spirited behavior.
     “Ride with me,” said Mordricus, spurring his horse towards the head of the column.
     Ryan rode close behind Mordricus and observed the army setting up its encampment along a ridge that overlooked a wide valley.  A waterfall fell from the hillside, pouring water into a river that meandered along the valley floor. 
     Mordricus pointed down to the waterfall.  “Arthur rests there, behind that waterfall,” he said.
     “Really?”
     “Yes,” said Mordricus, “this is the information that I obtained from the Griffinwood Document. It was so good of you to find it for me, old bean.  He’s in a cave, but unfortunately it’s not on this side of the gate, not in this reality. The cave and everything in it is repeated on the other side of the gate, and that’s where Arthur is.  The same river, the same waterfall, the same cave system.  The only difference is that in your world they’ve built a bloody great big dam and they’re about to flood the whole valley.  If Arthur doesn’t come out now, he’ll never come, so we’d all better hope that your lady friend has the sword.”
     “I thought that was what you sent Bors to do,” said Ryan.
     “I did,” said Mordricus, “but he can’t exactly phone me and tell me how he’s getting along, can he?”
     “No, I suppose not.”
     “You suppose correctly.”
     “So where’s the gate?” Ryan asked.
     “According to the map it’s about halfway down the hill,” said Mordricus.  “I think it’s hidden by a clump of bushes, but I think if anyone goes near enough they’ll see the mist.”
     “And you’re just going to wait here?” Ryan asked.
     “Right by the gate,” said Mordricus.
     “I don’t know why you would need an entire army just to ambush one man.  You afraid he might fight back?”
     Mordricus made a derogatory snorting sound. “He won’t fight back,” he said. “I won’t give him time.”
     “So why the army?”
     “Arthur still has his supporters,” Mordricus admitted.  “By bringing my army here, I’m setting a trap for them.  They will have no idea that Arthur has returned and that we have Excalibur, they’ll only know that my army is here, and they’ll attack, and that will be the end of them.  Don’t look so disgusted, old chap; I told you, we have to end this thing.  I know it’s not cricket, or baseball as you might like to call it, but it will get the job done, and I’ll be the High King.”
     Mordricus turned away from the ridge and sat for a moment watching as his soldiers went about setting up their encampment. 
     “Lots to do, lots to do,” said Mordricus. “No time to talk now, but play your cards right and I’ll give you a chance to come to court.  No good thinking you’ll get back through the gate; no good at all, old bean.”
     “You want me to stay here?” Ryan asked with a sudden onrush of disbelief. “You’re not going to let me go back?  I have a family___”
     “You don’t give a damn about your family,” said Mordricus. “You haven’t cared about them in years.  No, I’m not letting you go back.  If I sent you back now, you’d probably warn your friends about what’s going to happen, so I’m going to wait until Arthur is through the gate, then no one’s going back.  I thought I made it clear, when Excalibur and Arthur come back, everything closes.  Everything.”
     “Bors?” said Ryan.
     “I sincerely hope that he will stay on the other side,” said Mordricus. “The man’s an oaf and I won’t need him.”
     He clapped a gloved hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “You’re a historian,” he said. “You will be here to observe history.  Really, you should thank me for the opportunity.”
     Ryan looked at Mordricus with a sinking heart.  He was speaking the simple truth.  The gate would close and Ryan would be trapped in Albion, a silent observer of the history of another world.
     “Don’t think of going down there and trying to pass through the gate,” said Mordricus, indicating the waterfall with a nod of his head. “I’ve already set guards. You won’t get off this ridge alive. Now, please, go and wait at the rear.  You’re no use to me in this fight.”
     “I wouldn’t exactly call it a fair fight,” said Ryan.
     “Call it whatever you like,” said Mordricus, “but get the hell away from here.”
     He leaned from his saddle and slapped the rump of the grey mare who responded with a startled toss of her head and a clatter of hooves as she bolted away from the ridgeline.  By the time Ryan had her under control he was at the rear of Mordricus’ encampment, in among the supply wagons.
The mare came to an unwilling standstill and complained of her treatment with a loud whinny.  Ryan heard an answering whinny from the place where the cart horses had been released from their traces and hitched to various trees and bushes. 
     He looked around.  It seemed that every member of Mordricus’ army was fully occupied with their tasks and no one was taking any notice of him.  He considered his options.  What he needed to do was get through the gate and warn Violet that Mordricus was lying in wait for Arthur, although he had no idea what Arthur could do about the ambush even if he was made aware.  There was only one gate…or was there?  He was close to the home of the mist horses and his companion, the green knight, had told him that they were rumored to come from Avilion, the secret island home of Violet’s mother, and that they were known to exist in both worlds.  If another gate existed, might it be in Avilion?
     He loosened his grip on the reins, giving the grey mare her head. “Go home,” he said. 
     He clutched the pommel of the saddle, ready for her to burst into action but she was motionless.
     “Go home,” he said again. “You’ve been trying to go all day, now just go already.”
     The grey stepped sideways, moving daintily, and soundlessly, and he saw what he needed to do.
     The old horse, black with a grizzled muzzle, stood patiently among the other pack animals.  She shivered slightly despite the warmth of the sun, and he could see where the carter had laid on with his whip, trying to keep her in line even as she scented her home pastures.  Her eyes were fixed on the grey.