X-Calibur: The Trial (14 page)

“You've had a long and tortuous journey to reach the shores of my island home. What perils await you inside? What dangers must you overcome? Will either of you will survive, hmm? All these questions and more will soon be answered!

“Now, when I invited you into my home you expressed a desire to begin the trials post haste. And so, it gives me great pleasure to announce that your wish has been granted! Behold, Arthur and Merlin! Let the trials begin!”

With a sweeping gesture Joseph vanished before them. As Arthur and Merlin looked on, the food upon all the tables slowly turned into sand, overflowing onto the floor. Within seconds the ballroom was knee-deep in sand with no sign of slowing.

Arthur climbed onto the high table before helping Merlin climb up after him. “Thanks!” Arthur yelled to the otherwise empty room.

“Oh dear,” Merlin mumbled as he watched the sand climb ever higher. “I suppose the old adage is true; you really should be careful what you wish for.”

Chapter 9

The Art of War

Earth Year 6239

“Merlin, do you trust me?” Arthur asked hurriedly, his eyes darting left and right as he searched for the quickest route from the ballroom.

“Of course, my King,” Merlin began to say, but before the sentence had passed his lips Arthur had already tossed him unceremoniously over his shoulder. Merlin squealed as Arthur took a running leap from the high table towards the table nearest the entryway. The sand was already as high as their waists, and with every step Arthur sank deeper, each movement more difficult than the last.

With grim determination Arthur pressed on, driving himself forwards as the sand continue to flow from the rapidly hidden tables. He groaned with every step, swearing in frustration as he edged closer to the entryway. Once he felt he was close enough, Arthur lifted Merlin above his head and threw him to safety, the older man's body making a soft thump as it hit the shifting sands before sliding into the hallway to safety.

The sand now up to his chest, Arthur forced himself onwards, his arms pulling his body through the sand like a swimmer. His feet had long since lost purchase on the table, and there was nothing more he could do but press onwards, eyes fixed upon his goal. He could see Merlin in the entryway, fighting to get to his feet as the sand continued to move and shift beneath him.

“Hurry, Arthur!” Merlin screamed, one arm holding the wall whilst his other reached as far as he could into the disappearing room. “Take my hand!”

Arthur reached forwards, the sand at his chin and continuing to rise. His arms flailed wildly, seeking to find something, anything to hold on to. Try as he might to keep them open, his eyes closed as the sand crept past his nostrils and up his cheeks, seeping into the delicate folds of his lower lids. He was lost in the darkness, buried alive.

Suddenly a hand found his, fingertips touching as each man scrambled to find purchase. Seconds seemed like hours as their fingers interlocked and each pulled against the other, Merlin's ageing arms at breaking point as he pulled Arthur towards him. With a last-ditch effort, Merlin pulled with all his might and both men tumbled, sliding down the flowing wall of sand and out into the space behind the winding staircase.

“You're stronger than you look,” Arthur panted, each word punctuated with a heavy intake of breath. He was red faced and covered in a fine coating of silicate, but his admiration for the older man was plain to see.

“And you're stronger than I realised,” Merlin replied, equally breathless. “Don't you dare throw me like that again!”

Arthur chuckled before coughing, the sand irritating the back of his throat. “I'll try not to,” he said wryly. “But the way today's going, I can't make any promises.”

“Duly noted,” Merlin muttered with a slow shake of his head.

“So what's next?” Arthur asked as he got to his feet. He offered Merlin a hand which was gratefully accepted.

“As I recall, the grail was hidden in catacombs deep beneath the castle,” Merlin replied. “Perhaps we should look for a way down?”

“Or we could just ask them?” Arthur suggested as he moved to put himself between Merlin and the black-clad soldiers running towards them.

*****

Gwen had been pacing the small cell for what seemed like hours, walking in circles as she waited for news, answers, anything. The sound of the lock turning from the other side of the door drew her attention immediately, and she was already moving towards the door as it swung slowly inwards.

She expected to see Lance or the jailer, but instead the doorway was blocked by two of the identical guards who wasted no time walking towards her. Each guard grasped one of her arms and dragged her backwards, pinning her against the opposite wall. “Get off of me,” Gwen demanded as she struggled in vain to free herself. “Let me go.”

“All in good time,” the jailer announced as he joined her in the cell, an air of awkwardness about him she had never witnessed before. “I wanted to explain my side of the story first, I'm sure you understand?”

“Story?” Gwen mumbled with confusion, though the connotations of the jailer's words quickly became apparent.

As the jailer stepped to one side, two further identical guards dragged Lance through the doorway and laid him at her feet, or at least what was left of him. His normally blue face was a bloody mess, as was his chest, but that wasn't the worse thing she saw. The blacked arm she had tried so hard to care for was missing, and in its place was a ragged, burnt stump.

“Lance!” Gwen screamed, fighting harder against her captors though try as she might they hardly moved. “What have you done to him?”

She had a look of such fury, such anger, the jailer himself was stunned by it. It took him a moment to regain his composure along with his feelings of arrogance and authority. “I, erm,” he began. “I, well, I broke him.”

Gwen stopped fighting, her body going limp as she looked down at her fallen friend, willing him to still be alive despite all he had endured.

“In my defence,” the jailer continued, his confidence growing with every word. “I didn't mean to. It was just his pain, his screams, I, I couldn't help myself. You'll tell him, won't you? You'll tell the King it wasn't my fault?”

“Let me go,” Gwen said quietly, her spirit broken as the tears continued to fall. “Please, just let me go.”

The jailer nodded and the two guards who had been holding her so tightly released her. She dropped to her knees and ran her hands over Lance's blood covered face, feeling at his neck for any sign of life. He didn't move, didn't seem to breathe, but as she pressed deeper into the soft flesh at his neck she imagined she could feel the faintest of beats, then another, slow but steady beneath the tips of her fingers.

“I didn't mean to,” the jailer said again as he smiled down towards her.

“Clean water, bandages,” Gwen said pleadingly as she focused all of her attention on the pulse in Lance's neck.

“I'll get someone to bring them,” the jailer replied, but it was impossible for her to hear anything over the sound of her own sobbing.

*****

The six black-clad soldiers charged towards them, swords held aloft as they let out a resounding battle cry. They were Mori, like the guards in Mor-Dred's version of Camelot, dressed in a combination of black plate armour overlying chainmail.

The closest swung his sword in a downward arc, narrowly missing Arthur's head. Arthur sidestepped, his combat programming making him react instinctively, and he used his momentum to turn and drive his forearm into the back of the soldier's head. The soldier went down in a heap, the sword slipping from his grasp and clattering across the floor.

“Stay back!” Arthur shouted commandingly towards Merlin. “These aren't like the guards in Camelot, I can hurt them!”

Merlin smiled to himself as he picked up the sword at his feet. “Arthur, here!” he yelled in reply. “You'll need this!”

Arthur turned as Merlin threw the sword towards him, catching the hilt in mid air and using it to block the swing of an approaching guard. He kicked out at the soldier advancing on his right, winding him, before turning and slashing at the face of a third.

The swords were over a metre in length and heavy but perfectly balanced. Arthur had no difficulty wielding the weapon, parrying and riposting as the five remaining soldiers sought to surround him. The space behind the stairwell was narrow and Arthur used a gap he created to roll past his attackers and back into the hallway where he had more room to manoeuvre.

The soldiers followed him slowly, two from the right of the staircase and three from the left. Arthur backed up towards the large front door, his footsteps sounding unnaturally loud upon the marble floor. The world seemed to pause, time slowing as he held his breath and waited for one of them to make a move. He was ready; his body full of adrenaline and his muscles taught and ready to snap.

The two groups charged together without a word between them. Arthur ducked beneath the first sword and swung his blade, splitting platemail and knocking the soldier off his feet. His momentum kept him moving past the next soldier, allowing him to turn and drive the blade into the back of the soldier's neck, cracking the chitin with a wet thud. The soldier dropped to the ground, thick black blood oozing from the wound as Arthur paused to catch his breath. The three remaining guards seemed more hesitant, backing slowly away as Arthur flexed his fingers against the sword's grip.

“I'm willing to accept your surrender?” Arthur offered, smiling.

In response, the closest soldier charged, weapon held above his head in readiness for a two-handed swing. Arthur blocked the blow with his own sword, the clash of steel creating sparks as Arthur kicked the soldier hard in the chest, knocking him backwards. As he fell, Arthur brought his sword down in a two-handed strike of his own, cleaving the soldier's head in two.

“I'll take that as a no,” Arthur continued, freeing his sword with a twist of his wrist and pressing onwards. The two remaining soldiers fought as well as their comrades, all brute force and no finesse. Arthur dispatched them just as easily as the others, driving the tip of his sword into the first one's throat before almost taking the head of the second clean off. “Merlin, you can come out now,” he said as he wiped the blood from the sword with the cloth of his shirt.

“A formidable display,” Merlin said as he peered out from behind the winding staircase. “Well done.”

“Thank you,” Arthur replied. “It's hard enough to think with all that noise, let alone when there are Mori trying to cut your head off.”

“Noise?” Merlin asked with confusion. “What noise?”

“That constant, low droning sound,” Arthur explained. “It started after all the sand? Can't you hear it?”

Merlin paused and closed his eyes, concentrating. “I can't hear anything,” Merlin replied. “Are you injured? Have you hit your head?” Without waiting for permission, Merlin stepped forwards and began to run his fingers over Arthur's scalp, searching for signs of wound or injury. Arthur brushed him off.

“I'm fine, Merlin,” he insisted. “It's probably just sand in my ears or something.” Arthur made a point of digging a finger into his ears and shaking his head while Merlin looked on with concern.

“As long as you're sure?” Merlin said.

“I am,” Arthur insisted, though his words lacked his usual confidence. “Let's just find a way down into the catacombs.”

As Arthur began to open doors at random, Merlin's sense of dread continued to grow.

*****

Upon hearing Arthur's message, Triltan had redoubled her efforts in her examination of the interrogation machine. She had quickly abandoned her analysis of the nanowires and electrodes, realising that they were merely conduits to transmit raw data to the machine itself. Instead, she had performed a detailed scan of the machine hardware and was slowly beginning to understand how the component parts fitted together.

On a fundamental level, the machine was like a much larger version of her capsule. It translated neural impulses into digital code that the computer could understand and allowed the user to access them. She had discovered that it could also do the opposite if needed, convert computer code into neural impulses and transmit them into the brain of the accused. The connotations of that concerned her, the interrogators having the power to not only read a person's memories but also to rewrite them, but she had no time to worry about that particular ethical conundrum.

Triltan was finally much closer to piecing it all together, but still no closer to answering the most important question that plagued her. What happened if she unplugged someone from the machine while it was running? Would the memories be corrupted or even lost altogether? What about the other functions of the prisoner's mind? Could such an action damage the brain or, worse, kill the person she was trying to save?

Triltan was asking herself those questions when an alert sounded in her ear and an icon began to flash in the centre of her vision. She had set her scanner to monitor the vital signs of her friends trapped inside the birthing pods, and the alert was there to tell her that something had dramatically changed. She thought to her capsule and the readout from the relevant pod appeared in her vision before her.

As she began to read, her heart sank and her throat felt dry and swollen. The scanner had detected a sudden surge in Lance's heart rate and neural activity before plummeting. His heart was still beating, albeit slowly, but his neural activity was almost non-existent.

“I'm running out of time!” she yelled to the otherwise empty room, striking her fist against the console in frustration. “I don't know what to do.”

Part of her wanted to surrender, to give in and wait for her father to arrive, but she knew that she could never give in to that. She'd wasted most of a day already, trying to do the right thing, trying to think like the great Caran Doc. Time was running out, she could feel it, and seeing Lance's readouts only served to remind her of that. He was hurting, or worse, and nothing she had done so far had brought her any closer to saving him.