Sword of Camelot (6 page)

E
lmas, the Chief Interrogator of the Sanhedrin, feared few people. He was so accustomed to having his word obeyed and to seeing fear come into the eyes of his servants that it always came as a shock whenever he himself felt fear. And that terrible fear came whenever the Dark Lord summoned him.

Now, arrayed in his crimson robe, a gold chain around his neck, a medallion bearing a strange device bumping against his chest, he entered the chamber of the Dark Lord. He found that his breath was coming faster and that his stomach began to tighten. When he was inside, he fell on his knees before the powerful being that sat in the darkness of a throne.

“I am come, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord gave him one swift look, and his lips curled. His eyes were fathomless depths of evil. There was, indeed, an aura of evil that hung like a cloud about this powerful commander of an empire.

“You have failed me again, Elmas,” the Dark Lord said, his voice ringing like a hollow bell in the chamber. “If you cannot fulfill your functions, I have others who can.”

Elmas began to tremble. He cupped his hands together and raised them. “Oh, my lord, do not speak so. You must know that I have always obeyed your commands.”

“Obedience is not enough,” the Dark Lord snapped. He rose from his throne, tall, dark, somber, wearing a black robe with a hood that shielded most of his features. Only the red gleam of his eyes and the cruel lips were
visible. “I have commissioned you twice for a mission concerning these accursed Sleepers. Both times you have failed me.”

“It was not my fault.” Elmas's teeth chattered. “Goel aided them—”

“Goel!
You know I have forbidden anyone to utter that name!” The Dark Lord moved close, reached down, and caught the quaking priest by the throat. He jerked him up, almost spitting out the name.
“‘Goel.
The house of Goel will be filled.'” He shook Elmas as a terrier shakes a rat. “Next you will be joining this uprising that is trying to bring Goel and his pitiful servants to rule in Nuworld.” He glanced callously at the swollen face of Elmas, then shoved him away.

Elmas fell backward, clawing at his throat. The sucking in of his breath made a painful noise. Nevertheless, he scrambled to his feet and held up his hands again. “I will not fail you this time, Sire.”

“Very well,” the Dark Lord said in a deadly voice, “You have one more opportunity. See that you do not fail. What is the situation?”

“I will send a messenger at once,” Elmas said quickly. He was breathing a little easier now. “We have one of ours in Camelot. He is a clever and ruthless man. I will at once alert him to the danger of the Sleepers.”

“Get out. See that it is done.”

The Dark Lord watched the priest scramble out of the chamber. “Fool,” he said. He struck the wall with his fist, and it seemed that the rocks trembled with his power. “Always these Sleepers! Always Goel!” He clenched his fist again, and the evil in his face grew more pronounced. “I will pull the flesh off their bones, all of them! They will not take my kingdom!”

* * *

“Sire, a messenger has just arrived.” The servant who had come to the chamber of Lord Melchior watched apprehensively. One never knew how Melchior would take things. “He says that it is urgent.”

Melchior gave the servant a sour glance. “Who is he? What is his name?”

“He will not give his name—but he says he comes from Elmas, of the Sanhedrin.”

Melchior glanced up, his eyes flickering with interest. “Sanhedrin, eh? Well, show him in.”

When the servant had left, Melchior reached out and poured a stream of red wine into a silver flagon. He lifted it to his lips, sipped, and murmured to himself, “So. The Sanhedrin now is sending messages. I know Elmas. He'll use me if he can—but two can play at that game!”

The door swung open, and a small man dressed in a green cloak, shabby and worn, entered. A hood covered his head, and he bowed slightly. “Sir Melchior, I have a message from Elmas, my master.”

“Well, what is the message? Give it to me.”

“It is not written down, Sire. Such things would be too dangerous.” The messenger threw his cloak back, and Melchior blinked at the features of the man who stood before him. He was an albino—his eyebrows and hair were colorless and even his eyes a milky white. “My master commands me to tell you that it is urgent that you capture those who have come to Camelot.”

“‘Those who have come'?” Melchior questioned. “Many people have come to Camelot.”

A sullen expression came into the messenger's face. “Not like these. They are the most dangerous opponents of our kingdom.”

“I have heard of no newcomers of such importance. Surely I would have heard if such emissaries had come.”

“Not necessarily Sir Melchior.” The messenger shook his head. “These are very deceitful messengers. They are all very young, none over fifteen.”

“Children!” Melchior snorted in amazement. “I am to capture
children?
Has it come to that?”

“Do not take the matter so lightly! These are the servants of Goel. Their power we can only guess at, but they have escaped traps and have foiled the intentions and plans of the Dark Lord. It is he, my master says, who commands that the Seven Sleepers be captured or killed.”

Melchior stared at him, then said, “Sit down. I'll have food brought.”

When the messenger had seated himself, Melchior poured a flagon of wine and shoved it before him. As the man drank thirstily, Melchior said, “Now, tell me all you know about the ‘Seven Sleepers.'”

* * *

The entire castle of Camelot was decorated with banners of red and blue and yellow—the colors of King Dion. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread was in the air in front of the jousting field. The stands were filled with the nobility of the kingdom. Out on the far side of the field the groundlings watched as knights practiced their swordplay, fencing with one another while the grooms kept the horses ready for the activities.

“This will be your first tournament,” Elaine said to Reb. Her smile was sweet and gentle. “I hope it will not be your last.”

Reb shot her a surprised look. “You mean I might get kilt?”

A worried look crossed the princess's face. “It's not unknown. These tournaments are very dangerous. Some think they shouldn't even be held.” She shook her head. “I am worried about you, Reb.”

His pride touched, Reb said, “Why, shoot, don't worry about me, Miss Elaine! I'll be all right.”

The princess looked on him fondly. “I'll hope for that.” She gazed across the field. “Look, the knights are getting ready for the melee.”

“The melee? What's that?”

“Well, it's actually a mock battle. You see down there—those are the red knights. They represent the king. And there, down the other side”—Reb looked to where she was pointing and saw a group of knights dressed in black—“those are the black knights.”

“Well, what are they going to do?”

“As I said, they are going to have a pretend sword battle. You see, they are lining up, and when my father gives the signal they will charge down the field toward each other.”

Reb saw that the knights had drawn their swords. All were clad in full armor. “It does look pretty dangerous, doesn't it?”

“Yes. See, there is Loren, my brother, at the head of the red knights. This is his second tournament. He did very well last year.” She looked down at the knights dressed in black. “These are the best knights of the kingdom. Do you see the man in front on the big black horse?”

“Yep. He's not as big as a horse—but he ain't much littler either!”

“His name is Sir Melchior.” A troubled look came into Elaine's eyes. “He's a troublesome man. My father says he's very ambitious.”

“Well, he's a big one.”

Reb was impressed with the chief of the black forces. Melchior was dressed from head to foot in gleaming armor, but over it he wore black. His helmet had a black ostrich plume, and he clasped a long sword that caught the gleam of the sunlight.

At that moment a rider came out and announced, “Now, all will bear witness that honor must be maintained. Any man who falls from his horse must not be attacked. The king has commanded that mercy be shown the wounded.” The herald continued to give the regulations of the melee, then rode back to where King Dion sat on a platform.

The king looked fondly at his son, then at the black forces, and raised his scepter. All the horsemen held their reins tightly ready for the signal. Then King Dion lowered the scepter, and the two forces, with a loud shout, began to gallop toward each other.

Reb's eyes were wide as he watched. He blinked when the opposing riders came together with a crash. He saw Prince Loren parry a blow and knock one knight to the ground with a skillful thrust of his sword. The air was filled with the clanging of steel blades against blades, of the cry of pain as men were driven from their saddles, and the crash of armor as they fell to the ground.

“Look! Melchior's going to strike that man who fell!” Elaine cried.

Melchior, indeed, had knocked from his horse one of the chieftains wearing the colors of King Dion, and he raised his sword to strike the helpless man.

Then a trumpet sounded. Melchior glanced up swiftly and saw the king glaring at him. He spoke to the wounded man. “Leave the arena.” Then he turned to enter the battle again.

The melee went on for a long time. Man after man fell to the ground and limped off the field. The stable men came and led away their horses, some of them wounded as well.

Finally, when the two sides had almost the same number of survivors, the king stood. “Enough! I declare a tie.”

Both Melchior and Prince Loren began to protest.

“Let us finish the melee,” the prince said.

“No, we have had enough. You have proved your courage, my son. You and all of the men.”

Melchior raised his visor. His eyes were hot with battle as he rode up to the platform where King Dion and the queen were sitting.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “you are wise to call off the melee.” He smiled, and his white teeth gleamed against his dark skin. He was not a man without charm, this Melchior, and he knew how to draw men to him and how to hold them. He was a strong man as well, in every way, and now he said, “Sire, let us have one more contest. That will settle the winner of the tournament.”

A mutter ran around, and Loren said, “Yes, you and me, Sir Melchior, in a joust.”

The two had jousted before, with Loren losing twice to the older, stronger man. He seemed anxious to redeem himself, but Melchior shook his head. “We are your guests, Your Majesty, and since the melee has been inconclusive, as a guest I ask you to put forth a man to joust with me, and I ask you also to let me choose that man.”

King Dion stared at the tall form cloaked in black. The king was not a man to know fear—but if he were, this was the man he would have feared. He knew Melchior had gathered to himself discontented men, knights who had grudges against the crown and against the kingdom. He knew that daily Melchior's power grew. The king was suspicious, and yet he could sense the crowd's approval.

“Very well, let it be so. Who do you choose as your opponent—Sir Gwin, perhaps?”

“Sir Gwin is an opponent worthy of my steel,” Sir Melchior said. “But no.” Then he looked to the king's right where the Seven Sleepers sat on a somewhat lower platform. “I have heard of your guests the Seven Sleepers.
I have especially heard of the one called ‘Reb,' now ‘Sir Reb.'”

Reb had been sitting loosely, watching the encounter with fascination, but now, as he saw the hard eyes of Sir Melchior fixed on him, he swallowed, and his face grew red. Everyone in the arena had turned to look at him, and he muttered, “How'd he hear about me, Princess?”

“I don't know, but whatever he says, don't have anything to do with him. He's evil!” she whispered, her voice tense.

Sir Melchior moved his horse, using only his knees. The huge stallion came to the front of the box where the Sleepers were sitting, and Melchior looked them over carefully. There was something sinister in the way he studied them.

Josh's hand went to his sword instinctively. “He's up to something, Sarah,” he muttered. “I don't like the looks of it”

Melchior held Reb's gaze for one moment, then looked at the king. “Would it not be fitting that your champion should be one whom you have just chosen for his bravery?”

“He's but a boy!” King Dion protested.

“I understand that he is a little more than that,” Sir Melchior stated flatly. “He has unhorsed some of your best knights, has he not?”

“Well, that's true but—”

“And I understand his courage is unquestioned since he saved your life by facing a wild boar. Have I heard correctly, Your Majesty?”

“The boy is brave and a fine jouster—but I would not have him risk himself against a man such as yourself.”

Melchior turned and looked at the Seven Sleepers. He smiled. “You are not a coward, I trust, Sir Reb?”

Reb stood to his feet, overcome with anger. “I'll fight
you,” he said. As soon as he had spoken, he knew that he had made a mistake.

Josh's fierce whisper came, “Sit down, you fool. You can't fight a man like that!”

But Sir Melchior had heard Reb's response. He turned to the king. “Now, there's a man with spirit! I like to see young men who take their honor seriously. When shall we have the contest, Your Majesty?”

King Dion sought for a way to pull back. Somehow he knew this was going to be a disaster—but his honor was at stake, and the young man had accepted the challenge. Now he had no choice.

“The joust between Sir Melchior and Sir Reb will take place at noon tomorrow.”

The king then dismissed the crowd, and the Sleepers swarmed around Reb. All begged him to change his mind.