Sleepless Knights (37 page)

But my place was among my people. I found them fighting on foot, taking up the middle guard, for combat on horseback is a skill not easily mastered. On foot, however, they proved themselves a force to be reckoned with. Gumption and elbow grease gave their fighting a workmanlike quality that served them well against their opponents. These were barons or knights who had known only the tournament ground for
many years. As a result, many of their moves had a showy, superfluous quality that allowed, for example, Enid to dispatch men twice her size with simple but swift work from her sword, and Gwion to find a chink in many a breastplate.

But alas, this was a failing that extended to both sides. Too many good knights were laid low for lack of focus and an excess of flamboyance. Sir Bors, Sir Ector and Sir Dagonet all fell before my eyes, struck by blows that would never have hit home in the days when they kept a leaner sword-arm. With almost unbearable sorrow, I watched as these knights of the Golden Age gave up their ghost. As the first of them died, I looked out for their shade-selves, thinking they might appear to me in death, as one of my own kind. But they did not, and I remembered that I was still somewhere in Hell, and perhaps not yet truly dead myself. I wondered if this battle, as real as it seemed, was only a re-enactment of one that had been fought long ago, its outcome already known to the mind of history.

The vanguard made a brave uphill struggle but were soon pushed back down to the valley floor by the sheer force of opposing numbers, so that they were now fighting alongside my old team. Gradually, they were forced still further back to the opposite, northern side of the valley, where they dug in and stood firm.

And then there was Beaumains.

I knew that she had received a martial training in her youth, but to see her fight was a sight most astounding. Side-by-side with Sir Gareth, Sir Marhalt and Sir Palomides, she and Guinevere smote a good many upon the brainpans. Not only that, but she encouraged all those around her, spurring them on to fight faster, harder, better. Such as Geraint and Gwion, who had developed a tactic whereby the younger man would use his smallness and speed to position
himself behind an enemy, who Geraint would push over and then finish off on the ground.

“Where is Mordred?” said the Queen again. “I won't fall until he does.”

“They are retreating,” said Sir Gareth. “Look!”

Sure enough, the tide was turning in their favour. I had scarcely noticed it, but this brave company had evened up the odds and were now on the offensive. I cheered with elation, regardless of the fact that nobody could hear me.

It is hard to convey how frustrated I had felt, watching that battle play out. To see men fight and fall, to stand in the midst of all that chaos and be so utterly powerless, was a furtherance of this Hell indeed. However, my primary instinct was not to take up arms and fight myself. It was hard to define, but something about the battle's management offended my professional sensibility. Not so much where the army was concerned, in spite of all their rusty, fussy moves, but among my own staff. A feeling that for all their stamina and pluck, they were somehow not getting the job done properly. I can put it no clearer than that.

Sir Gareth and Guinevere dispatched the last man before them, and the surviving warriors, no more than fifty now, stopped to rest. Beaumains looked to the east, where the sun still shone. “A bright light,” she said. “Like a second sunrise. A good omen?”

“I wonder,” said Sir Gareth.

“In my experience, it's one of the best,” said Geraint. “You can't get any better sign than a bright light in the east.”

A gust of wind swept down on the small band. They turned their eyes up to the north hill behind them. There, at the summit, a second army gathered, as numerous as the first, while up on the opposite hillside, the first army had regrouped, their numbers refreshed, awaiting orders.

“That was not a retreat,” said Sir Gareth. “It was to prevent one of our own.”

Now Mordred appeared, among the number to the north.

“Hemming us in on both sides,” said Guinevere. “A coward, but a cunning one.”

“On the other hand,” said Geraint, his voice faint and wavering, “maybe it's a bright light in the
west
that's a good omen…”

“Curious to say,” said Sir Gareth, “this does not feel like the end.”

“They have archers!” said Sir Palomides. “To your shields!” Shields were raised, too late for some, and beneath that thick and deadly barrage the second army of the white dragon roared down the north hill and into the crooked enclosure of Camlann. From the opposite side, the other forces advanced, at a pace that was almost leisurely.

Sir Palomides led his comrades back to the middle of the valley again; his last act before succumbing to a trident of arrows. The Queen took an arrow to the side and swooned, sore-wounded. The survivors formed a tight circle around her. Dear Geraint was among the first to go, hit by another hail of arrows. As he fell, I realised the extent to which the Grail had desensitised me to the reality of death; immunised me against its sharp sting. How many times had we cheated it, over the years? Stretching the fabric of our mortality until it had been pulled out of all recognition? Here at Camlann there was no such reprieve. Here, Gwion fell, never to rise again with a cheery quip. Here, Enid would not sit up to have arrows pulled from a healing heart. Here, the spear that did for Bedwyr would remain like a lever in his chest. Of course, the Grail could have saved them, too. But as I knew full well, the Grail was not here. It did not belong to Camelot in smithereens, but to King Arthur's bright new hope of the Eternal Quest. All the Grail meant to these fine few was a
tantalising glimpse of a gleam on the horizon; a cruel flicker of false hope before the final failing of the light.

And then there were none left standing, save for Sir Gareth and Beaumains and the wounded Queen. “Ma'am, with your leave,” said Sir Gareth. “Since we are to die anyway, I would consider it rude to depart this earth unaccompanied.”

“Godspeed,” said Guinevere. Raising his sword aloft, Sir Gareth charged towards the enemy on the southern bank. They made much mockery at his approach. Some of them were still mocking as their limbs were severed from their bodies, as that good knight did not go gentle, but hacked and hewed until the angry mob closed in upon him for the last time.

Beaumains stood alone in the middle of the valley, the dying Queen slumped by her side. I was some distance away and could bear to see no more. Yet I could not simply stand idly by, and so I ran towards her. At Mordred's command, the spear-throwers readied their arms. I reached Beaumains in the nick of time, jumping in front of her as they let fly their missiles. Painlessly, the spears pierced my spectral form. Painfully, I heard them hit their target. I fell to the ground, blood seeping from somewhere behind me, a patina of crimson on the battle-churned grass. Slowly it disappeared, as if soaked up by the earth, and with it the sights and sounds faded too, all the triumphant clamour of King Mordred's army advancing, victorious.

†

There was a certain story told about Merlin, perhaps one of Sir Kay's old
Chronicles
, dating back to before the time of Arthur's father, King Uther. Merlin witnessed a battle, so the story goes, in which many dear to him died, and the sight of it drove the wizard mad. I resolved there and then on the
field of Camlann that I would indulge in no such breaking of the barriers. All this was in the past. There was nothing to be gained by wringing one's hands in regret and recrimination. There was nothing we could have done. There was nothing
I
could have done. All this was a distraction, another hellish device employed by this place to keep me from my goal of finding Merlin. I had to keep telling myself that I was not dead. Hell had no claim on me. I would not let it beat me with this tawdry emotional blackmail.

All the same, it was one thing to know this, quite another to feel it. I therefore forced myself to focus on practical matters. There was no sign of the wizard in this particular field, now completely deserted, and nothing save my own testimony to differentiate it from a thousand others. The only sound was the faint gurgling of the valley stream.

A shadow fell over me, accompanied by a harrumphing and a wet nose pushing my cheek. I looked up into a familiar long face. “Plum!” I said, and he whinnied in reply. Whatever he was doing here, he was evidently as real as I was. I threw my arms around his neck and pulled myself up. Thankfully, Plum had a mind to leave that place, and seemed eager for me to do likewise. I mounted, surprised but grateful to find him saddled, and he started to canter up the northern slope, out of the fateful valley. And there, at the crest of the hill, I saw the very man I had been seeking since arriving through the vortex: Merlin, still hooded, riding a grey mare. He was not going to get away from me this time. Plum struck up a full gallop and we were away, speeding after the wayward wizard.

The fields and trees withered and died as we travelled, turning by degrees into a landscape of endless sand dunes that bore no resemblance to anywhere I had ever been. Nothing grew here save for those plants native to desert places, the only signs of life the occasional bones of long-dead
beasts, bleached to bright ivory by the sun. The featureless monotony was a comfort to my eyes, for every furlong put more distance between us and the horrors of Camlann.

Suddenly, up ahead and shimmering like a mirage, I saw the form of a large beast galumphing across the arid plain — a beast that was chasing Sir Pellinore! It was the very creature he had dubbed the Questing Beast, and here it was, as real as the hoof-prints it left in the sand. This Questing Beast was being ridden with expert skill, by one of those foul creatures who had dragged Sir Pellinore away upon our arrival in the decrepit Great Hall.

It was remarkable to observe, but the Beast was rendered in the flesh exactly as I had imagined it all those years ago. The feet and legs of a stag propelled a streamlined leopard body, with all the pouncing power of its lion hindquarters. All this served as the engine for a long snake-head, which snapped its fangs after the frantically fleeing knight. The Beast and its rider were toying with Sir Pellinore, letting him run until he reached a sand dune, which he would scramble up as fast as he could. Once at the top, the Beast would whack Sir Pellinore with its snout and send him rolling down the other side, waiting for him to get up and start running across the flat ground. Then the rider would send the Beast bounding after him again with a flick of the reins.

“Sir Pellinore!” I cried, and tried to urge Plum over to lend aid to the helpless knight. But Plum only increased his speed, intent on chasing Merlin. The desert flew past us, until Sir Pellinore and his grim hunters were no bigger than specks of sand.

 

It was not long before we lost all sight of the wizard. The relentless glare of the landscape induced in me a sort of blindness. So when the desert rose up before me in a wild sandstorm, I took it for an optical illusion and received an eye full of grit for my complacency. Plum did not falter, but pressed ever onwards, and I clung tight to his neck, narrowing my eyes against the stinging tornado. At last the storm fell away and we found ourselves on a green path, Merlin once more in our sights, approaching a palace that glittered like ice.

As I wiped away the worst of the sand, I saw that this castle was constructed entirely from glass, and looked vaguely familiar. Then I recognised it as the Glass Fortress, located on the Otherworld coastline where the Master had found the Grail. On the hills in the distance away to my right stood another very different castle, that of Morgan Le Fay, guarding the part of the Otherworld known as Annwn.

Plum slowed to a trot as we approached the rear entrance. Ahead of us was a wide, deep ravine with access to the gleaming fortress only possible via a single, tunnel-like bridge. The floor of the tunnel bridge was covered with a close arrangement of crystal swords, slicing back and forth at irregular intervals. Above this walkway of doom, twelve semi-circular axe blades swung like pendulums. The single
doorway at the far end of the tunnel was revolving with such great speed that anyone stepping into it would surely be flung back out onto the fatal bridge. But all this was nothing to Merlin. He had apparently gained access with ease, and stood for a moment beyond the revolving blur of the doorway, just long enough for me to see him before he moved inside. Very well. If that was the way he wanted to play it, he was not going to stop me now.

But what was I thinking? I was a ghost here in the Otherworld, yet I was approaching this obstacle like a man of flesh and blood! I took a step towards the nearest sword, then hesitated. It would be wise to check that the rules of the Otherworld applied universally. I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and dropped it onto the bridge. It was instantly shredded to confetti, along with my bright idea.

Perhaps I would make better progress by thinking like a butler again. The smooth operation of this bridge-of-certain-death suggested a rigidly-observed maintenance schedule. Presumably, whenever anyone was unsuccessful in their crossing, the bridge was thoroughly cleaned of the hapless quester's remains. There had to be some way of stopping the various mechanisms, in order for such work to be carried out. If I were in charge, my first concern would be to enable my staff to do their job with the bare minimum of faff. I would also count on the approaching adventurer being so preoccupied with the deadly challenge, that he would fail to notice anything beyond his immediate, quest-dazzled eye line.

I was therefore looking for something close at hand, but perhaps not immediately visible. I knelt down and took a good look at the left hand glass pillar where the bridge began. A square compartment no bigger than my hand was concealed by an arrangement of four crystals, reflecting back a smooth surface to anyone not crouching directly in front of
it. I reached inside and touched what felt like a lever. I pulled it down. There was a soft clink, followed by a whine like the sound produced by circling a wet finger on the rim of a wine glass. The apparatus on the bridge and the revolving door beyond it slowed and came to a smooth stop. Plum gave me a snort of approval. “Wait here old boy,” I said, and entered the Fortress of Glass.