The Wrong Sword Page 5

  Down twisting staircases. Through long halls covered with older, stranger carvings than any he’d yet seen. Past mysterious wells. The torchlight threw shadows on the walls and played across devices he couldn’t even guess at. Henry kept track of every twist and turn, determined to remember his way back if he had to.

  Whatever warmth there was in the rest of the keep wasn’t here. The air grew colder and colder as they dropped, until their breath steamed out of their mouths and chunks of ice gleamed in the fonts of holy water.

  Finally, they arrived at a smooth granite door, twelve feet high, carved with the sign of the labyrinth. It must have weighed tons, but it swung open silently when Scarface touched it with one hand. They entered, mounting their torches on brackets in the walls.

  This room was unlike the others. No carvings, no maps, no machines. Plain and barren except for the door—and two suits of armor, complete with swords, facing each other from opposite sides of the room.

  Oh, no. They want me to fight somebody. Henry gulped. It wasn’t fair! He’d been so clever! But in the end, it always seemed to come down to swords.

  Henry sagged to the ground in despair. “You want me to do this now? Die in the middle of the night?”

  For once, Scarface hesitated. He stared at Henry for a moment, and then glanced at the other monks. Taking Henry’s tablet, he scrawled a picture of the sun, and the Roman numeral II. And then the monks filed out, leaving Henry alone, staring up at the suits of armor.

  II meant the hour of Prime—he’d have until daybreak. If there were anything to do, he had to do it in the next few hours.

  The monks returned at dawn. If anything, it was even colder now than it had been at midnight. Henry stood carefully and slowly, ever so slowly, put on the helmet, the mail shirt, and the sword. Across the room, he saw Scarface doing the same. One part of his mind, detached from the situation, noted modern falchion, cheap Norman design, half a livre at best. Soon, all too soon, Scarface was ready. He turned to Henry, and made the sign of the Cross.

  Henry screamed. “STOP THAT SHIT, YOU SON OF A BITCH! IF YOU’RE GOING TO KILL ME, THEN DO IT!”

  The monk’s face darkened. Henry didn’t stop.

  “Bassez mon cul, cochon! Kiss my ass! Take your honor and stick it where—” There was one thing to be said about a life on the road—it gave you a rich vocabulary. Henry used every last bit of it.

  At first, Scarface did nothing, waiting for Henry’s tirade to wind down. But it didn’t. As Henry warmed to his topic, he became more and more inventive.

  Scarface’s control began to crack.

  Insults about the monk’s courage, ancestors, personal habits, and virility added wood to the bonfire without igniting it, but when Henry started in on Scarface’s mother, the monk finally lost it.

  White-faced and furious, Scarface charged forward, his sword raised high.

  Still six feet across the room, the monk’s legs flew out from under him, and he hit the floor with an enormous, undignified crash.

  Henry tiptoed forward as quickly as he could. He had to be careful, though. He had to watch out for the trails of slick ice that crisscrossed the room. They had formed in the night, after Henry had crept out of the room to a font, drawn three buckets of icy well water, and poured them all over the frosty floor.

  Really, somebody should have kept better watch. The brothers were clearly getting sloppy.

  Sidestepping the last ice slick, Henry kicked Scarface’s sword away and backed off. He heard a clicking sound behind him and turned. One of the other monks—the one he’d privately named Too-Big—had picked up Scarface’s sword and sheathed it.

  Slowly, Scarface got to his feet and met Henry’s eyes. For the first time since Henry had met him, Scarface grinned wide and pointed to the far wall. Henry turned to look.

  A line of shadow appeared at the top of the wall, racing to the bottom to define two doors swinging open. Beyond was an empty chamber with a window that framed Glastonbury Tor.

  Henry walked into the room. There were no pictures, no friezes. Just a single verse in Welsh above the window:

  Three signs to the sword of kings:

  An island of glass, and a lake under stone,

  And a voice without cease.

  The “voice without cease” didn’t make much sense, but the rest was more promising. The “island of glass” was Ynas Wytryn, entrance to the Otherworld, and the sword might have accompanied Arthur on his final voyage there. If he could just find that…

  Oh, no. It can’t be that easy.

  Glastonbury Vale was filled with fog. The sun streamed across the white haze, through which Glastonbury Tor poked like an island in the middle of the sea. Coated with snow and hoarfrost, the mountain gleamed above the waves of mist, like an island made of glass.

  10. The Sword in the Stone

  Henry poled the wide, flat-bottomed barge across the foggy swamp of Glastonbury Vale to the tor beyond.

  The ferry had been waiting for him at the Chapel’s dock when he’d gotten out. About halfway across, he had considered ditching Glastonbury Tor entirely and just poling like crazy for the far shore of the marshes. In the end, he’d decided not to. After all he’d been through, he had to see if Excalibur was really there. And if the sword actually did exist, it might give him some leverage with Brissac. And anyway, it was dead winter, and he didn’t have a horse, a purse, or a speck of food, so his fleeing choices were actually a bit limited.

  The barge landed with a gentle thump, and Henry got out. The dock led to a smooth, well-made road that curved around the tor to the right. Henry smiled and walked around the bend.

  “Congratulations, boy.”

  His heart skipped a beat. It was Brissac, smiling his nastiest smile, and the Swiss, who looked a little more welcoming—was Haer giving him a thumbs-up?

  “How…how did—”

  “We’ve kept watch on the Chapel from all sides. We saw you leave, and we picked our way across the swamp to meet you. You owe Weiss a new pair of boots, by the way.” Brissac turned to survey the tor. “So—it’s here, the sword? Or was this just some half-baked escape attempt?”

  “If it’s anywhere, it’s here.”

  Brissac glanced at him sidelong. “Eh. I wouldn’t have expected it. Good work, boy.” He tossed a staff at Henry. “Now get moving.”

  Out in the snow, exposed on the hillside, Henry led the way with the staff, pounding the ground every three or four steps. The temperature had risen since morning, turning the dry powder into icy slush. Brissac and the Swiss followed, bewildered and getting angrier as the snow melted to water and seeped into their boots.

  “Why are we here?”

  Henry shook off Brissac’s hand and kept going. “‘Isle of Glass,’ remember?”

  “Yes, yes. But the entrance is obviously in the ruins at the top of the hill—”

  “Really?” Henry turned and pointed to the mound. “Remind me. Didn’t I tell you about ‘the lake under stone’? About the cave?”

  “Yes—”

  “And where do you enter a cave? From the roof? Or from a passage to the floor?”

  Brissac clammed up.

  “We’ve been all around the tor. If I’m right, the entrance should be—” Henry banged the ground with his staff. After a moment, he was rewarded with a hollow, booming thonk.

  “—there.”

  Two hours later, they had removed the snow and ice and broken through the frozen soil. The snow melt had raised the sharp smell of wet earth. The trench was already several feet deep into the side of the hill when one of the mercenaries hit buried stone with a clank. “I see something,” said Hauptmann.

  It was a door of gray rock, carved in infinite detail with looping whorls and knots and crosses. Across the top was an inscription: Hic iacet sepultus inclitus rex Arturius in insula Avalonia.

  “What does it say?” Brissac crowded close, staring at the door, his hostility forgotten.

  “Here is the grave of Arthur, king in the isle
of Avalon.” Despite himself, Henry felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  A new voice spoke. “You may not enter.”

  Henry turned. The monks of the Chapel surrounded them on all sides. No noise, no sound. They had just appeared like magic. How did they do that?

  Brother Scarface walked forward, staff in hand, and took up a spot between Brissac and the door.

  Brissac’s jaw dropped. “Pierre!?”

  Scarface smiled. “Hello, Edmond.”

  Brissac raced forward and hugged the monk. Henry was amazed. It was the first time he’d seen the knight show affection for…well, for anything.

  After a moment, Brissac released Scarface—Pierre—and stepped back. “We thought you dead!”

  “I am dead to my old life, Edmond.” Pierre pointed to the other monks. “So are they.”

  “What…what happened?”

  “We came seeking the sword. We failed the test, and took holy vows to protect it, instead.”

  “You failed? And that succeeded?” Brissac pointed at Henry with disbelief.

  “So far.” Pierre nodded. “Of course, the most important tests are still to come.”

  “You failed, but you lived.” Henry kicked at the snow in frustration. “Gee, fra, thanks for telling me.”

  Pierre glanced at Henry. “Some people do die.”

  Henry shivered.

  Brissac stared at Henry for a moment, and then got back to more important business. “But, Pierre, this is wonderful news. You can come with us when we bring the sword to Prince Geoffrey. He’ll reward you with—”

  Pierre shook his head. “Geoffrey cannot have Excalibur.”

  Brissac grinned as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Nonsense, Pierre. He wants to unite the West. You know that. What more noble cause could there be?”

  “None.” Pierre nodded. “But Geoffrey is not the man.”

  “Of course he is.” Brissac’s voice had lost its sparkle. “You swore an oath to him for that very reason.”

  “Then where is he? Is this not his quest?” Pierre waited for Brissac to respond. “No answer? Silence? For the love we shared in arms, Edmond, I will make you this offer. If Geoffrey truly wants Excalibur to unite Christendom, let him stand before me and ask.”

  Brissac growled. “My lord has better things to do than chop logic in a swamp with a failed knight.”

  “Indeed.” Pierre nodded wearily.

  Brissac’s knees flexed into a crouch. His hands dangled loose at his sides. “Pierre, you’re a holy man now. Don’t make me kill you.”

  Henry stepped between Brissac and Pierre. “Look. We can fix—”

  Brissac shoved Henry out of the way and stood directly in front of Pierre. “Stand aside.”

  Pierre’s hand tightened on his staff. “No.”

  Without breaking Pierre’s gaze, Brissac yelled, “Hauptmann!” And there was the CLICK-CLICK of crossbows being cocked.

  “You monks have staves, Pierre. Maybe swords. For all I know, you’re armored like turtles under those robes. But do you really think you stand a chance against Swiss crossbows? Does your oath command you to die for no reason?”

  Henry looked around. The Swiss outnumbered the monks two to one, and all of them had their weapons out. They didn’t look happy about their targets, but they didn’t look like they were going to disobey, either. “For a noble knight, you sure like killing from a distance.”

  Brissac nodded, never taking his eyes from Scarface. “You I will kill with my bare hands, I promise.” He returned his attention to the monk. “Must I prove that I’m willing to shoot?”

  Scarface looked deep into Brissac’s eyes, and clearly didn’t like what he saw. “No,” he said, his voicing dripping with contempt. “I believe you…knight.”

  “Then drop your weapons and sit on your hands.”

  The monks sat. Brissac turned to Henry. “In you go.”

  “What? Wait—” But two of the Swiss grabbed him by the arms, while another two opened the door.

  “NO!” Henry screamed, but it was too late. The terrible thud of stone hitting stone echoed down the tunnel like the Last Trump. The door was shut fast. Brissac had trapped him under the hill. He was buried like the dead.

  Henry shook himself. Don’t think like that. It was just a barrow, a mound. There was a way in, so there was a way out…maybe more than one. They’d thrown a torch and a staff in with him. Henry took out his flints and lit the torch. The light showed a tunnel running arrow-straight into the earth. The walls were carved with more of the knots and fretwork he’d seen on the door. It was actually warmer than outside. At this rate, he was doing better than Brissac and the Swiss.

  Feeling calmer, Henry started down the tunnel. Then he saw the brown splashes on the floor. Dried blood. He took a deep breath and kept going.

  He tripped over the first skeleton about twenty feet down the tunnel. The bones collapsed into dust. The armor that had held the bones was rusted to the ground, and no modern knight would have worn it—a helmet with a crest; greaves and cuirass; arm guards.

  Henry felt old fears rise up and choke him. The Chapel had been scary—mysterious and deadly. But this…this wasn’t deadly. It was just dead, death itself. The stories he’d heard from his grandmother and Alfie—the things that waited under the mounds and behind the standing stones, the pale maidens with teeth like daggers, the ancient darkness, the cruel, beautiful fair folk, the dreams walking toward daylight—

  Henry crouched down and hugged his knees. No. Dead is dead. “Otherworld” means “dead and gone,” nothing more. After a moment, he stood. All right. Just some old bones. Let’s go. He gathered his courage, held up the torch, and went on.

  Soon he passed another skeleton, and a third. The armor was always broken. Bronze and iron were sliced like cheese. Henry swallowed the lump in his throat. Each step took him closer to whatever had done this; each step seemed to echo through the tunnel. Finally, he stopped and took off his boots. Barefoot and quiet, it was easier to go on.

  The tunnel opened out into a vast stone cavern, lit by a crack in the stone roof. And in front of him—

  An army of the dead.

  Skeleton upon skeleton in broken armor, facing forward, tumbled down. There had been a terrible fight here. All of the armor had the same insignia, a black crow on a red field. They had all been on the same side. Who had they been fighting?

  Henry picked his way forward. Ahead of him, a sunbeam lanced through the roof onto an island in the middle of an underground lake. At the water’s edge was one last skeleton. This one’s armor was no better than the rest, but it had a different insignia—a gold dragon on crimson.

  Henry looked around. One against dozens. This poor guy had fought alone, under the earth, all the way to the water’s edge, totally outnumbered.

  “I don’t know who you were, brother, but you had more guts than I ever will.” Henry covered the skeleton with his cloak and made the sign of the Cross. “Rest in peace.” He turned back to the lake.

  Hmmm. In the lake, an island with a rock outcrop in the middle. On top of the outcrop, a squared-off block of stone. Stuck into the stone—

  A sword. The blade gleamed in the sunlight, elegant and deadly. Henry stood for a moment, amazed. That was it. That was the sword, and he had found it. Not Geoffrey or Brissac or…or anyone.

  Him.

  He stuck a finger in the water. Jesu, that’s cold! But there didn’t seem to be any choice. He stripped, tossed his staff in the water, and jumped in.

  Yikes! Henry thrashed through the icy water to the other side. He leaped out of the lake onto the shore, gasping for breath and slapping himself to get his blood moving.

  He hopped around until parts of him stopped shrinking, and then picked his way up the outcrop. The climb was only a few minutes, and then he was facing the sword in the stone. There were letters on the slab. Henry clutched at his Latin, trying to interpret. Hic gladius est poena magna gluteum. “This…sword…is a…big
pain?” That couldn’t be right.

  Henry knew he had to pull the sword from the stone, but touching it felt…sacrilegious, like peeing into the holy water at St. Severin’s. Well, here goes. He wrapped his hands around the hilt and pulled. Nothing. The sword was stuck like it was part of the stone. Henry pulled again, and a third time. No good.

  So I’m not King Arthur. Big surprise. What if he just went back up the tunnel and told Brissac? Let him try his luck with the sword? Back on the surface, Brissac and his mercenaries were probably still in their stand-off with the Brotherhood. Somehow, Henry didn’t think they’d appreciate an interruption just for the information that someone else had to get Excalibur. No, if he wanted to live, he’d have to come back up with every advantage he could get.

  He tried to study the stone again, not as a terrified kid, but as a thief. Maybe the whole story had been a trick. That’s how he would have done it, if he’d been Merlin—some mechanism inside the boulder, a clamp or a spike, holding the sword tight until just the right person, the one who knew the secret, came to pull it out.

  The stone was big, four and half feet tall, the same wide. Limestone or marble. Easy to carve, thought Henry. Someone could have chiseled a secret lever, no problem. But no matter where he looked, no hidden catch, no grip, no trick panel. Solid as bedrock. Except…a little wobble.

  Henry studied the base of the stone. It sat low, in a sort of bowl in the hilltop. But on one side, the bedrock had fractured, leaving a gap beneath. Off-balance, the stone rocked back and forth. If he could rock it far enough out of the bowl—

  Am I actually going to do this? Henry didn’t let himself hesitate. Instead, he found a rock for a fulcrum, jammed his staff under the stone as a lever, and heaved. The marble stone shifted off its base. Another heave, a third, and a fourth. The stone tipped over. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, the stone bounded down the slope, finally smashing to pieces on the rocky shore of the lake.