Knight Life (43 page)

C
HAPTRE

THE
T
WENTY-THIRD

N
EIGHBORS OF MORGAN'S
in Verona looked out their windows, watching lights cascading from her windows. One man muttered to his wife, “I'll tell ya . . . the old bat who lives there is having one serious party.”

    
Suddenly unleashed elemental forces erupted from the old house. The ground started to rumble, narrow crevices opened in the weed-covered grounds. Windows glowed with wild, unearthly fires. Those who were of a more imaginative bent thought that bizarre black shapes, twisted and reeking of evil, emerged from the cracks and sideboards, from the chimney and the gutters, dissipating into the rainy night—dozens of them, creatures that had been Morgan's slaves, on whose energy Morgan had fed. Poltergeists, near-formless creatures that on their own created minor mischief but that, under the control of a master necromancer, could alter probabilities on a wide scale—and even effect election returns—vanished into the night. Morgan's control of them slipped through her fingers as she used every iota of mystical energy she possessed in her battle against Merlin.

    
Arcane shields hovered before her, cracking and splintering. She blocked Merlin's thrusts the way a fencer would, but more and more began to slip through. She began to weaken mystically. Her energy slipped away from her.

    
“You cannot dampen my hatred for you!” she howled. “It continues to grow!”

    
“Hatred is destructive not constructive, Morgan,” Merlin retorted. “And I intend to create! Create a world that you're not in!”

    
Merlin advanced on her, his face set. Morgan battered at his defenses, but he had had time to recuperate. The edge was his, and he was not for one moment permitting Morgan to recapture it. His lips were constantly moving, chanting, invoking the power of the gods, drawing strength from bands of mystic energy that hovered before him.

    
“Damn you, Merlin Hellspawn!” Morgan cried. She raised her hands above her head and abruptly dropped her defenses, pulling all her mystic reserves together. A solid black bolt of power sizzled through the air like a thing alive. And Merlin brushed it aside as if she'd tossed a feather at him. It angled upward, blasting through the roof of the old house. Sparks flew from it as it passed, caught on the shingle roof. The roof began to blaze.

    
Neighbors on the sidewalk pointed at the fire and hurried to call the fire department.

    
Morgan fell back, back further. And she started to age, deteriorating with incredible speed. Within seconds her hair was gray, then white, then falling out, her face wrinkled, her teeth brittle and breaking. The only things glowing were her eyes, in desperation. “Merlin,” she croaked out, “We could rule together—”

    
“Go to hell,” said Merlin. His hands formed the horns of Satan, and power flowed from them. Morgan hastily tried to create more shields, but Merlin's spell passed through them as if they were not there. The power surrounded
Morgan, bathing her in an unearthly light, and she clenched her fists, beating at the air as she screamed her fury. “You haven't won yet! I still hate!”

    
Her body turned black, then pale blue. And then, with a rush of air, it exploded outward.

    
Merlin turned away as a wave of light and heat rushed at him carrying a foul stench that made him gag. When he looked back, in the space where Morgan had been, there was nothing.

    
No, not quite nothing. A black cloud was there, hovering, fuming. Merlin rushed to create a spell of containment, but before it was fully formed, the black cloud slipped away and vanished through the walls.

    
The ceiling overhead burst into flames. The fire had worked its way downward, and the house was going quickly. Merlin dashed over to the side of the fallen Gwen, fully expecting to find a corpse. He knelt beside her, lifted her wrist and checked her pulse. To his surprise he found one, strong and steady.

    
He took her face in his hands even as the room began to fill with smoke. “Gwen!” he shouted. “Get up! I don't know if I have enough power to get us both out of here! Gwen, speak to me!”

    
Gwen snored.

    
“Oh, bloody wonderful,” said Merlin. A sharp cracking overhead alerted him, and he saw a flaming timber break off and fall toward them. He spoke then, spellcasting faster than he ever had in his life. From the corner of his eye, he saw a petrified rodent dashing toward them, and then the timber crashed down.

“R
EPEAT
,”
SAID EDWARD
Shukin to his viewing audience, “we are projecting Arthur Penn as the winner of this year's mayoral election—”

    
The repeat was not heard, for the cheer that had gone up when the announcement was first made totally
drowned it out. In the midst of the crowd Arthur was laughing, cheering, being pounded joyfully on the back. Nubile young women hugged and kissed him, and every man wanted to shake his hand. He was alternately pushed and pulled to the podium up front, and within moments he found himself facing a mob of cheering, enthusiastic fans and workers. He smiled and put up his hands to indicate that they should quiet down, which only provoked further cheering. Laughing, he just stood there and allowed the adulation of the crowd to wash over him, wave after wave of love. It filled his soul to bursting.

    
Finally the crowd started to calm down enough for Arthur to begin to say, “My friends, my . . . dear friends—”

    
At that moment Ronnie ran up onto the stage and shouted, “Keating just conceded!” And that set off another round of cheering and applause. By the time Arthur finally got to say anything, it was past midnight.

    
“My friends,” he said. “My dear, dear friends. It's been a long fight. It's been a difficult fight. We've had small victories along the way. We've had . . . small losses.” He paused, searching for words. “The trust that this city— that you—have in me, a humble visitor from the past”— and this provoked some cheering—”has certainly been gratifying. I swear that I will uphold the trust that you have placed in me, and do the best job for New York City that any mayor has ever done.”

    
Someone in the audience shouted, “When are you running for president?”

    
Arthur grinned as people applauded. “Well, let's give me a few years to get my feet wet. After all, it's a lot easier being king than being mayor or president. I have a lot to learn first.” He waited for the laughter to subside. “When you're a king,” he continued, “you tell people to do something, and by God they do it. When you're a mayor, they ask you why. And when you're a president they pass it over to some committee or other where a group of men
who don't give a damn what you say get together and decide that they're not going to do it at all.”

    
“Arthur for king!” someone shouted.

    
Arthur raised a clenched fist in appreciation. “Now that's the kind of forward looking backward thinking that I intend to make the hallmark of my career!” The applause was thunderous.

M
ODRED WATCHED AS
much of Arthur's speech as he could stomach, then switched channels and saw Keating. He was standing behind a podium, looking ashen—looking drunk, actually—and he was saying, “I have already contacted Mr. Penn . . . make that Mayor-Elect Penn, I'm sorry. You don't know how sorry. No . . . no, I shouldn't say that. He won fair and square . . . and I would like to be among the first to congratulate the new mayor, and pledge my support in all his future endeavors.”

    
Taking some pleasure in a moment of destruction, Modred kicked the TV over. The cord ripped out of the wall, and the set made a satisfying crash as it fell to the ground. “Arthur,” Modred said tightly, “somewhere, somehow . . . I'll find a way to kill you. And as soon as I find a way, you'll be the first to know. Until then, rot in hell.”

    
He picked up his bags and started for the door, and suddenly dropped the bags and screamed. He pitched over, clutching at his head as if his brain were threatening to explode out the top. He smashed into walls, at war with his own body. And finally he collapsed out of sight behind the bed.

    
He lay on the ground, gasping, thumping at his head and then slowly, very slowly, he stopped. He waited until his rapid breathing slowed to normal and then he got to his feet. He felt light headed for a moment, but that quickly cleared. He looked around the room as if seeing
it with new eyes, and then he caught his reflection in the mirror.

    
Morgan Le Fey smiled back at him.

    
And he laughed loud and long.

I
T WAS THE
early hours of the morning when Arthur finally arrived home at his modest apartment. He looked around and sighed. Merlin had advised that he keep the place, even after he moved into Gracie Mansion. He sighed again. No matter where he lived, it would seem pale in comparison to Belvedere Castle. And yet, the castle itself would seem empty now that Gwen wasn't there.

    
“Congratulations, Mayor Wart.”

    
Arthur spun. There, at his bedroom door, was Merlin. His hair and eyebrows were singed. He had removed his jacket and tie, but his shirt and slacks were blackened from smoke. To Arthur he had never looked so good.

    
“Merlin?” He walked slowly toward him, not daring to believe it. “Merlin—is it really you?”

    
“Yes, Wart,” he said tiredly. “It's me.”

    
Arthur touched his shoulder gently, tentatively, and then a grin split his face. “You got away, didn't you? You little fox. I should have known.” Then his voice hardened. “Where's Morgan, Merlin? Where is she hiding? Tell me, because by Excalibur there'll be a reckoning—”

    
Merlin raised a hand. “No need, Arthur. There's already been a reckoning. Morgan is dead.”

    
Arthur paused in disbelief. “Dead?”

    
“Yes. Her body, at any rate. It's hard to destroy her utterly. At the moment all that remains of her is a little discorporated cloud of hate. And I'll get that eventually too. I'd like to put it in a bottle on my mantel. Make a nice conversation piece.”

    
Merlin sauntered across the room and threw himself full length on Arthur's sofa. Arthur followed him, shaking his
head wonderingly. “You did it. You really did it. Morgan is gone.”

    
“Well, I had some help ...”

    
“Help? How do you mean?”

    
Merlin told him. He told him everything—everything Gwen had said, everything that he'd done. Arthur stood there trying to take it all in. “You're saying . . . you're saying that she really saved your life.”

    
“No,” said Merlin, positioning the throw pillow under his head. “I'm not saying that. I'll be double damned if I'd ever admit that I needed anyone's help to fight my battles. However, if you say it, I won't contradict it.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I was wrong about her, Arthur.”

    
“No, Merlin.” Arthur sat across from him. “You were right. You said she wasn't trustworthy, and you were right.”

    
Merlin shook his head. “She made mistakes, true. And you have not? Everything that your precious Gwen Queen did, she did out of a sense of duty—remember she had once sworn loyalty to Lance. She was certain no lasting harm would come to you. She was betrayed by Morgan in that respect. As I recall, Morgan pulled the wool over your eyes more than one time. As a matter of fact, Modred would never have existed if—”

    
“I . . . gather your point, Merlin,” said Arthur sheepishly.

    
They were silent for a time, and then Arthur said, “Merlin? How can I trust her loyalty to
me
now?”

    
Merlin snorted. “Good God, Arthur, that woman went through all manner of hell, on the remote chance that she'd win back your favor. Even though her motives were, in a way, honorable, she was still remorseful over what she'd done. She risked life and limb to undo the results of her handiwork.”

    
Arthur shook his head. “I can't believe some of the things you say she was capable of.”