The Wrong Sword Page 6
Untouched by the years, undamaged by the fall, Excalibur gleamed among the marble fragments, its edge catching the light from above. There were no jewels or fancy goldwork on the hilt, no engraving on the haft. Only its graceful lines and the steel of the blade, so flawless it looked like a strip of pure silver, suggested a weapon that was anything but ordinary. Henry climbed down and, holding his breath, picked it up.
The cave exploded with the sound of trumpets.
A heavenly choir began to sing.
A surge of power ran up the sword into Henry’s hand.
A voice thundered through the cavern. “Whosoever Pulleth The Sword From Out The Stone, Is Rightwise Born King of All England.”
Henry screamed and threw the sword into the lake.
Silence.
Henry whimpered. After a moment, he took his hands off his ears and stood up. “Who said that? Where are you? Where are the trumpets?”
Most people like the trumpets. They add a sense of drama.
The voice was female, aristocratic, a little finicky. But no one was there.
Henry looked down at the sword in the water. “You said that!”
An image appeared briefly in the water—the face of a pale, beautiful woman with silver hair and eyes. The voice rang in his head. Of course I said that. What shall I call you? Sir? Prince? Are you king already?
“Uh, no. ‘Henry’ is fine. Just ‘Henry.’”
The voice was sympathetic. Oh. I understand. It’s all right. Some of my best bearers had humble origins. Why, Arthur himself began as a squire. Do you have a scabbard for me?
“Uh, no. To be honest, I didn’t expect this.”
Humility. You didn’t know if you’d be able to pull me from the stone. Hmmm…good. I like that. Well, aren’t you going to pick me up?
Slowly, very slowly, Henry reached into the water and picked up Excalibur.
Henry strolled up the hallway, back to the surface. After the skeletons by the lake and the ghostly face in the water, the corridor was practically homey—except for the legendary killing machine that Henry was holding. The one that was trying to make small talk.
So, tell me about yourself. What was your last sword like?
“Well…uh, it was a Frankish broadsword.”
Was it pretty?
“Yes, but it…wasn’t genuine.”
That’s so often true with the pretty ones. I can’t tell you the trouble Roland had with Durandal. She wasn’t that sharp, either.
Henry increased his walk to a jog.
Have you slain any dragons yet?
“No, no dragons. Very few dragons in Paris, actually. None.”
What about ogres?
“No ogres. We have some law students.”
Oh, they’re no challenge. So how does a noble knight stay fit for battle now?
“I’m not really a noble knight. I’m more of a messenger who’s supposed to take you to the noble knight.”
If you’d asked him before he went underground, Henry would have sworn it was impossible for a sword to look shocked. But now he realized his mistake. It was something in the way the light reflected off the edge—
You’re joking.
“Believe me, I wish I weren’t.”
But the stone, the clues, the lake—they’re part of the quest. Do you mean to say that someone actually tried to…to hire it out?
“Well, if it helps, it’s not how I would have done things.”
The sword screeched to a halt, stopped in midair. Henry couldn’t budge it. It was as if it had been quick-frozen into a lake of ice.
No. I am sorry. I will put up with many things—bad posture, irregular sharpening, even poor storage—but I will not be quested for like some cheap relic.
“But—”
Take me back to my stone, young man. Take me back this INSTANT.
“But, but—there isn’t any stone anymore. It’s smashed to pieces.”
The very air in the tunnel vibrated with outrage. You broke my STONE!?
“I had to…to get you out…”
Maybe that was a clue, young man? That you weren’t worthy? That you needed to wait for someone else? Did that never occur to you?
This was insane. He was hundreds of miles from home, surrounded by homicidal maniacs, buried alive, and arguing with a sword. He tried to get a grip, and failed. “I didn’t have a choice!” he yelled. “All those knights you like so much would have killed me if I hadn’t come back with you!”
Another long pause. Was the sword…considering?
These men forced you?
Henry nodded. “Yeah. Tied me up, threatened my friends, the whole processional.”
Well. Maybe it was a symptom of his departing sanity, but Henry felt he could almost see the sword nod its head. Let’s take a look at them, and see what there is to see. And stand up straight, for Heaven’s sake. Slouching does no one any good.
Outside, the monks and most of the mercenaries were gone. It was just Brissac, with three of the Swiss, waiting for the sword.
“Where is everyone?”
Brissac stepped forward, waving away Henry’s question. “Is that the sword?”
Henry nodded. “Oh, yes. It couldn’t be anything else, believe me.”
The snarl faded from Brissac’s face, replaced by an expression of awe. “I didn’t think it possible…Give it here.”
Henry raised the sword, and Excalibur’s voice rang in his head.
Don’t do it. He’s hiding something.
“How can you tell?”
Brissac glared at him. “How can I tell what? Who are you talking to?”
Excalibur spoke again, more urgently this time. After two thousand years as the sword of heroes, I can smell treachery.
Henry looked around. The ground was trampled into mud. There were flecks of blood on the snow, and the Swiss looked…guilty. He needed time. He needed to stall. “All right, let me think.”
“Think about what? Give it here!” Brissac stepped closer.
“Uh, just a moment. Let me get a scabbard for it. English winters are just…murder…on blades.”
Henry turned to where they’d stored their equipment, next to a tumbled standing stone.
“NO!”
But Brissac was too late. Henry saw what the knight was trying to hide. Behind the boulder were the bodies of Scarface, the monks, and the rest of the Swiss. They were all dead.
“Jesu…”
Behind you!
Henry spun around just as Brissac lunged at him, sword out. Brissac’s point caught him high on the shoulder before he stumbled backward.
And then the power was back. It spread from Excalibur through Henry’s hand and arm, into his chest, down his legs, rooting him to the earth. He took three steps back, light on the balls of his feet, legs bent and right arm extended. The blade felt heavy but easy to move, a fearful engine, perfectly balanced.
Brissac nodded. “So you do know something about fighting. Good. Less to confess.”
But Henry wasn’t listening. Excalibur was there, in his head, thinking along with him. A glittering, murderous ghost, filled with edges, points and battle plans, rules and fury. It was like a head full of knives. Henry screamed.
It came out as a battle cry.
They charged together. Brissac made a feint to the head, another to the chest, and then an attack to the legs—
But Excalibur was there, at head height, and mid-chest, and thigh. And it met Brissac’s sword, and disarmed him, and cut him low on the chest, slicing through the leather jerkin into the skin. Brissac’s blade exploded out of his hand, and he fell to the ground, bleeding.
Excalibur faded from Henry’s mind. Suddenly, it was just a scary magical sword again, and not a possessing demon. Henry stared at Excalibur, at Brissac, at the stunned Swiss.
“BOO!” he yelled. The Swiss took off, leaving Brissac clutching himself on the ground.
Henry knelt beside Brissac. “Why did you do it?”
Brissac licked
his lips. “Geoffrey’s orders. Keep secret…that he didn’t come…himself. People must believe…in a quest…for the sword.”
Henry rubbed his eyes. It made no sense. “You killed the monks for a lie?”
Brissac shook his head. “No. For a king. A king to…unite us. One land. One law. One king.”
Crazy. These Normans were just crazy. Didn’t they eat snails and frog legs? Brissac lay on his back, on the ground. Henry looked down. If he let Brissac run off…
Then Brissac would follow him. And wait. And some dark night when he didn’t have a magic sword nearby, Brissac would kill him.
Henry had no choice. He swallowed hard. He had never killed a man before. He had spent his life running from men who had.
“Mercy. I yield.” Brissac squeezed out the words like seeds from a grape.
Henry shook his head. For once, he had no snappy reply. He raised Excalibur—
Which froze in midair. Again.
No. He has yielded. We shall not strike.
“Look, I don’t know how you did things in Camelot, but this is the real world—”
Brissac looked bewildered. “Who are you talking to?”
Henry ignored him. “—and it’s a hundred miles to London, and even farther to Paris. If I don’t kill him now, he’ll sneak up and kill me. You want to belong to him?”
That is neither here nor there. He has sought mercy, and by the Code of Chivalry, you shall give it to him.
“If you’re going to kill me, you could at least speak to me!” Brissac sounded frantic.
“Not now!” Henry turned back to the sword. “I am—”
You are a most inappropriate young man, but you shall not commit murder while you wield me.
Henry tugged. Excalibur was stuck fast in…in nothing at all. “Right. I’ll just get another sword.” After a struggle, he let go of Excalibur. The sword dropped point first into the frozen ground, and Henry grabbed a blade from the body of one of the mercenaries.
Stop!
This was scary. He could hear Excalibur even though he wasn’t holding it. Never mind. Concentrate. He could do this. Henry held up the weapon. Brissac closed his eyes. Henry stood silent. Everything seemed clearer, brighter. There was a roaring in his ears. Henry breathed in. Could he do it? Kill a wounded man? Kill any man? Brissac would have done it, without a thought. Blessed St. Nicholas, patron of children and thieves, help me. I’m just a kid.
The moment stretched—longer, longer. Henry realized he was holding his breath, and he let it go. Slowly, he lowered the blade. “Get up. Run. Or I’ll let Excalibur take you.”
Brissac scrambled to his feet and limped down the track. Henry looked around, at the dead men, at the blood, at the magic sword stuck into the ground. Then he closed his eyes and threw up.
Ten minutes later, he felt better…more numb, anyway. The wind was biting into him, and the wet snow was seeping back into his boots. He stared at the bodies, and at Excalibur, still point-first in the dirt. What a mess.
Well. At least you didn’t butcher a helpless man. That’s something, I suppose.
Henry wiped his mouth. “Shut up.”
Mind your manners. Now pick me up and clean me.
Henry stood. “Riddle me this. What’s got a big mouth, but no legs?”
What?
“You.”
Henry grabbed a staff and turned toward the ferry.
What’s that, Prince Geoffrey? You want all the lands of Christendom? Of course I can win them for you. I’m just sitting here, in a swamp, not doing anything…
Henry stopped. “I hate you.”
When you clean me, be sure to get a chamois cloth, and to use smooth, vertical strokes.
Henry sighed, stooped, and picked up Excalibur.
11. A Boy and His Sword
“What do you mean, you won’t take it back!?”
Yes, what do you mean?
Henry shifted on top of the horse. The monks were packing for him, while Too-Big—alias Brother Wulfgar—checked Henry’s bandage. He looked sorry, but firm. It was a combination Henry had never seen before, and he didn’t like it.
“You woke the sword. It is your destiny.”
“Oh, you think I have a destiny.” Henry smiled with relief. “Don’t worry. I have it on good authority from dozens of monks, sheriffs, and antique sword collectors that I have absolutely no purpose in life whatsoever. I’m worthless. Giving me Excalibur is about as smart as wrapping St. Margaret in bacon and sending her off to hunt dragons.”
Exactly. You’re making uncommonly good sense.
Wulfgar shook his head. “Soon Geoffrey knows what happened here. We cannot stop his army.”
“Prince John could. And he’s your regent, too.”
Wulfgar set a pin in the cloth. “John cannot stand against Geoffrey. And other things there are here to protect.”
Henry winced in pain as Wulfgar tightened the bandage. “Damn it! Er, sorry. I should have killed Brissac when I had the chance.”
Regret is the weakling’s meat and drink.
“Mercy is not a mistake,” said Wulfgar. “Do not despair. You found the sword for a reason.”
“Yeah, so it could be a three-foot pain in my behind.” Henry adjusted the bandage. “So what is the story with you guys? I mean, where did you come from? What else are you guarding? Are those really dead guys in the trees? What’s with all the sculpture in the front plaza? Is there really an Avalon?”
As if he hadn’t heard a word, Wulfgar rummaged in a box and handed Henry a small coin pouch. “Go to Constantinople, where the great princes of Christendom gather for Crusade. Our chapter house is there. If there is no prince worthy of Excalibur, the masters of our Order will help you.”
Henry laughed weakly. “But…you can’t be serious. I’d have to cross all of Europe.” A trip like that could take a whole year, if you completed it at all—and that was even if you were going with a band of armed knights. A lone traveler had about as much chance of getting to Constantinople as Alfie did of becoming Prince of Wales.
Oh, whine, whine, whine.
“Shut up, or I’ll let Geoffrey have you,” muttered Henry to the sword.
Wulfgar looked confused for a moment, but continued. “You are not alone. We guard more than the sword. When in danger, for your mother’s sake, ask for aid as a stranger going to the East.”
“But…I am a stranger, going to the East.”
“So no problem.” Wulfgar continued, “Maybe you even find someone who deserves the sword.”
Henry smiled bitterly. “Trust me, no one deserves this sword.”
It had been four days since the slaughter at the Isle of Glass. Every night since, Henry had dreamed of Excalibur in battle, in his head again, thinking his thoughts, moving his limbs. He had thought that nothing could be worse than that moment. But traveling with the magic sword had proved him wrong.
One mile from the abbey:
Well, you are not an ideal candidate, but even the humblest clay may be molded. Now, there are certain rules you must obey—
“Oh, yeah?”
First, you shall bathe. Then—
“A bath? In the middle of winter?”
Sir Gawain bathed each midnight from Advent to Epiphany in the Pool of the Winter Queen. What frightens you is the thought of soap.
“Really? Well, I bathe once a month in the summer, whether I need it or not. And I don’t care what you think you know about the human body, I’m not freezing bits off by swimming in December. What do you care anyway? You don’t even have a nose!”
The quality of the wielder is a reflection on the sword. Next, you shall see a barber or chirurgeon at the first town, and have that awful scruff shaved off until you can grow a proper beard. And stop slouching—
Wait a minute. No wonder this sounded familiar—it was just like the arguments he had with Mattie. The brat would pick away relentlessly at some bit of trivia, until, just to make him go away, Henry would say—“You’re right.”
“You’re absolutely right. I do need a bath. As soon as I can find one, I promise I’ll bathe.”
Why not now?
“If I did, I would leave you unguarded on the river bank, where anyone might take you. Is that what you want?”
No…no…of course not. Very well, then.
Blessed silence. Maybe this could work. Henry started to smile.
Of course, as my bearer, you must know my lineage.
“Excuse me?”
My lineage. Forged in the West by Weyland out of Wulcan. Borne by Ambrosius out of Bran. Foretold by Mathonwy in the Book of Three Starlings. Hidden by Myrddin for the clan of the Dragon. Pay attention. You will be graded.
Five miles from the abbey:
And tempered was I in the waters of Llydau—
“Right.”
…and a piece of the True Cross was melted into my blade.
“Really?”
That I would be a sword of mercy and peace.
“A sword…of peace.”
Aye.
“And a piece of the True Cross…the wooden True Cross…was melted into your blade.”
Silence.
Maybe it was one of the nails from the True Cross.
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
What do you mean?
Twenty miles from the abbey:
And Guinevere. Don’t get me started about Guinevere. She never left Arthur alone with me if she could help it. Jealous, cold, petty—why are you poking at your ear like that?
“Just making sure that my brains aren’t leaking out.”
What?
“Nothing.”
Thirty miles from the abbey—
Long shadows raked the barren plain. The snow stretched out for miles, left and right, to the faintest hint of a line of trees in the distance. There was no sound, no wind. The sun was a red ember on the horizon. The only break was a crossroads ahead, next to a tree.
As Henry got closer, the tree started to look different. It was too short and too thick. There weren’t many branches. Then he realized there weren’t any branches.
Then he realized it wasn’t a tree.
The creature was ten feet tall, warty and green, with lank matted hair and six-inch fingernails and a club the size of a table. Even its pinkies had muscles.