The Third Magic (14 page)

Unlike most swords, which were made of bronze, or even the new, famous black swords invented by Macsen's grandfather on the hilltop known as the Tor where they lived, this sword's blade was silver-colored, and light as wood. Anyone wielding it would not be swinging a heavy iron bludgeon, but a precision edge designed to function like a sharp knife.

"Macsen," Brigid breathed, running her slender hands above the deep, perfect metal of the blade. "You have made something wonderful."

"My grandfather helped," Macsen said, smiling. His grandfather had been the greatest swordmaker in Britain. Until his death, he had worked with his grandson to perfect what he had called the sword of the gods, this sword, Excalibur.

1275   B.C.E.

The old man first got the idea for it during his travels. "Travels" was how old Macdoo referred to the seventeen years he spent in slavery.

He had been taken during some long-forgotten foreign incursion, and put on a ship to a faraway city called Mycenae in a land so highly advanced and so alien that Macdoo might as well have been on another planet. He was set to work in a foundry, at first burning his hands and lungs at the filthy task of smelting the raw ore that was to be made into bronze for the weapons that were produced in huge quantity for the use of the Mycenaean army.

During the nearly two decades that Macsen's grandfather spent in this place, his owner, the armorer, grew old. He came to rely on the sturdy and pleasant young fellow more and more. Eventually he taught Macdoo everything he knew about making swords.

Toward the end of the armorer's life, with his own sons long dead in battle and no one to tend him except for the slave who had served him for so long, he shared with Macdoo a secret he had guarded jealously for many years: the secret of iron.

He had made only one such sword in his life, and given it as a gift to the King of Mycenae; but the King was sickly and frail, and could barely lift the heavy black sword. Embarrassed by his own weakness, he had dismissed the armorer with little fanfare. Afterward, the sword had been relegated to a storehouse somewhere, never to be used again.

But the armorer knew its value. To those who could wield it, the heavy but nearly indestructible iron sword would vanquish every enemy. As a dying gift to his faithful slave, he passed on the process of the iron sword's manufacture before setting him free. The generous Greek had thought to provide Macdoo, who was no longer young, with a way to earn a living in his adopted homeland, but the Briton had no intention of remaining in the complex, cosmopolitan atmosphere of urban Attica. He was going back to the Tor on the island he would always call home.

It took him another six years to reach his destination. By then he was nearly forty, an age seldom attained by anyone, let alone a slave who had spent a lifetime at hard labor. There were few in his village on the Tor who remembered him. His wife had died of fever many years before. His daughter, who had only been one year old when he was taken into slavery, was now a widow herself, with an eight-year-old son and two younger daughters to raise alone. She had been glad to take in the old man, especially because he possessed a skill prized among all, the ability to make weapons of war.

Throughout the sparsely populated island of Britain, metalworking had been in a primitive state before Macdoo's arrival. Daggers and short, thrusting-type longer weapons were made by various methods here and there, but their hilts came apart from the blades easily, and in many cases the blades themselves broke on impact the first time they were used.

Macdoo's bronze swords, with their sophisticated tangs and rivets, changed all that. Demand for them was so great that men would often travel great distances in order to barter for one of the prized weapons. But his masterpieces were the iron swords he developed during his twilight years. The "black swords of the Tor," as they came to be known, became so prized that none of the precious blades were permitted outside the settlement. If a man wanted to own a sword of iron, he would have to move with his family onto the Tor.

By the time old Macdoo could no longer work the forge himself, he had taught his grandson everything he himself had learned about swordmaking, and one thing that he had not yet learned.

"There is something beyond iron," he confided to Macsen one winter night as he felt the chill of death breathing in the room. "I know it to be true, though I have not had time to try it."

"Try what, grandfather?" Macsen had asked.

"To purify the metal. To burn away everything in the ore that is not perfect, and use only what is left. It would be a perfect sword, Macsen. A sword of the gods."

"What... what would we call it, this sword made of a metal beyond iron?"

"Call it Excalibur," old Macdoo had commanded. "It means 'voracious.' "

"Voracious?" Macsen asked, smiling. "A hungry sword?"

"Hungry for blood." The old man's eyes twinkled. "Men like their women sweet, but their swords vicious."

And from that day, Macsen worked to create, from his mind and his sweat and the strength of his arm, the sword of the gods, which he now presented to the woman he loved.

 

 

The Black Hills, South Dakota

A
rthur gasped as the
vision of Brigid vanished from his mind. "Hal!" he cried, looking around helplessly at the silent hills. Hal was in danger. Arthur did not know how he knew that. Nor did he know where he was, how to reach Hal, or who might help him.

There was only one person who could, of course. To summon him, Arthur would have to swallow his pride and admit his weakness. And betray his location.

But it would be for Hal. The premonition had been strong; he knew Hal would die unless he was taken from where he was.

Standing erect, Arthur opened his arms wide and shouted a cry of supplication that rang through the swordlike rocks of the sacred hills:

"Merlin!"

With a small smile, the old man touched two fingers to his forelock as he began to fade away. "At your service, Highness," he whispered.

FACE-OFF OVER MOUNT RUSHMORE

Rapid City, South Dakota

T
aliesin materialized in the
boiler room of St. Francis Hospital, grateful to all the old gods that the Innocent had not been present to see him.

Somewhere along the line his concentration had wavered. The problem with magic was that it was so bloody exact. The focus required was such that it would literally kill most people. Why, he thought, if it hadn't been for his training on Mona...

What am I thinking?
he realized as he made his way through the basement toward the elevator, feeling with his senses for Hal's presence in the building.

It did kill me. I spent sixteen hundred years being dead.

His thoughts drifted to the Innocent and her unenthusiastic comments about his accomplishments. "Some people appreciate nothing," he sniffed.

Hal was in room 503. He was sitting up in bed, watching television and eating the waxy yellow flesh of a chicken. Taliesin shuddered.

"What are you doing here?" the old man demanded, his hands on his hips. "Besides fattening yourself up, that is."

"Glad to see you, too," Hal said, turning up the volume on the TV news.

"No broken bones? No addled brains? I thought this was an emergency."

"I took a bullet. Flesh wound. I should be well enough to leave by tomorrow. Who told you I was here, anyway?"

"Arthur."

Hal looked over, frowning. "Arthur? How'd he know?"

"By using his mind for something other than staring at an inanimate object," he said irritably, snatching the remote control out of Hal's hand. He pressed several buttons to no effect. "How the devil—Oh, my."

The remote fell out of his hand.

Suddenly the old man looked as if he had eaten a worm. Hal followed his gaze to the television screen.

"On a lighter note, police have arrested eleven men who claim to be the Knights of the Round Table," the news announcer said as the camera focused on a group of large, loud men in various states of inebriety being surrounded by uniformed police. "Yesterday evening, the as yet unidentified individuals were apprehended while attempting to scale Mount Rushmore. Their plan, according to a spokesman, was to carve a fifth face into the side of the mountain."

The camera now shifted to a shot of Lugh Loinnbheimionach, wild-haired and sporting a leather jerkin open to the waist, climbing meekly into the back of a police wagon. In the background were the carved likenesses of the four Presidents, brightly lit against the night sky.

"Whose face would have joined the ranks of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt?" the newscaster asked, grinning. "You guessed it: King Arthur's."

Hal made a strangled sound. "I'm going to kill them," he said, hobbling from his bed to the bathroom, where his clothes were hanging on the door. "Take their necks in my bare hands one by one, and—"

"Oh, no," Taliesin said. He was at the window. "They're right outside. The police station must be nearby."

"Good," Hal said. "I'll turn myself in as soon as they're all dead. Ouch." He touched his wound gingerly. "At least Arthur's all right."

"Well..."

Hal looked up. "He is all right, isn't he?"

Taliesin cleared his throat. "I'm sure he's fine. It's just that... Well..."

"Where is he?" Hal bellowed.

"I'm afraid he's somewhere in the Black Hills. On something of a ... a walkabout, you might say."

"Alone?"

"Yes. That is—"

"Jesus," Hal muttered. "You, too."

"Now, really—"

"Just save it, okay?" He stumbled out of the room and limped toward the elevator.

Fortunately, Taliesin could move far more quickly than Hal.

T
hey had intended no
wrongdoing. Curoi MacDaire made that clear from the beginning. In fact, they had followed Hal's orders to the letter after the debacle with the gun-toting biker. As soon as the lone police car left in pursuit of the Cadillac bearing Titus Wolfe and Pinto, the knights had escaped into the hills and remained there, determined to behave like good citizens until Hal's return.

It was not until long afterward—several hours later, in fact—that the men, bored and uncertain about what to do in Hal's absence, wandered into a roadside tavern called the Tally Ho Bar, where they learned from a rack of picture postcards about the American marvel called Mount Rushmore.

"Who might these blighters be?" Dry Lips asked after the tenth round of ale.

"Kings, I'll wager," Tristan said.

"But they've no crowns."

"Aye. ‘Tis America, remember."

Dry Lips nodded sagely. "What say you, barkeep? Be these kings, whose faces are carved into the rock?"

The bartender looked up momentarily from the sink, where he was washing glasses. "Sort of," he said, noticing that they were all carrying weapons. "Presidents, kings ..." He glanced at Dry Lips' narrowed eyes. "Same thing, I guess," he finished gamely.

The knights passed around the postcard in silence. Finally Gawain, who rarely spoke, said the words that all of them were thinking: "Arthur's face should be up here."

There was a moment of electrified hesitation in which the men's eyes shifted intensely from one to the other. Their jaws clenched. Their hands caressed the hilts of their swords. Then Kay banged his fist on the table, shattering the quiet.

"That's settled, then! We'll put the great King's image on the mountain!"

A cheer went up. "Where would it be going?" Bedwyr asked passing the postcard to Fairhands, who was the most artistic of the lot. "Here, do you think, between these two blokes?" He pointed to the space between Lincoln and Roosevelt.

"Perhaps at the end," Fairhands replied. "Here, beside this fellow with the big nose." He pointed to the carving of George Washington.

As the knights rose as a man and lumbered toward the door, their swords clattering, the bartender set down his cloth with an air of annoyance.

"Someone planning to pay for those drinks?" he asked the group at large.

"Of course," said Curoi MacDaire, grinning. He swaggered forward and tossed a small leather bag to the bartender. "And a fine ale it was, my good man!" With a salute, he followed the others outside.

The bartender opened the bag. Inside were eight quarters.

With a curse, he picked up the phone and dialed the police station.

T
hey were enjoying an
afternoon of song in the Pennington County jail when Taliesin appeared, furious, with their bail.

It seemed that the knights had hardly begun the climb up the south face of the illuminated mountain when they were surrounded by police and taken promptly into custody. Despite the hyperbole of the police reporter who accompanied the arresting officers, the knights had not really done much wrong besides underpay the bar bill at the Tally Ho. They had not begun to climb the mountain (although they had been vocal in their intention to do so) at the time of their encounter with the police, and so could not be charged with either being a public nuisance or disturbing the peace. In the end, their weapons—and the objects they carried in full view could only be loosely interpreted as such—were confiscated, their debts at the Tally Ho satisfied with a fistful of twenty dollar bills which the Merlin produced, and they were, at least temporarily, set free.

"I suggest you ride into the mountains as soon as possible," the old man said, "before Hal makes a scene on the street."

"Is he here?" Launcelot asked.

"He was nearby, in one of those places where they saw off your limbs."

"My son!" Launcelot choked.

"It's quite all right. He was leaving when I had to come to the aid of this sorry bunch." Launcelot looked abashed. "My thanks to thee, Wizard," he said humbly. "Might we be of help?"

"You've helped quite enough already, the lot of you," the old man snapped. "Just keep these fools in check. Now be off with you."

"Not so fast." Hal lumbered up beside them. He was grimacing and holding the wound on his side.

"You have an injury," Launcelot said.

"And you're going to have one, too," Hal began, but a hand-held camera moved into his line of vision.

Since news of the arrest first broke, a number of reporters had made the connection between the antics of the strangely attired Britons on Mount Rushmore and the accounts of four years before concerning a young boy with miraculous powers who disappeared one night in New York City.

"Aye, he ought to have his face up there on your mountain, that's what I've been telling ye," Curoi MacDaire was pontificating into a microphone. "Do ye not know who the boy is, then?"

"Who?" the reporter prodded.

"Peter Pan," Hal said, shoving the camera and microphone away.

"Peter who?" MacDaire asked pleasantly.

"Get moving," Hal said.

Taliesin gave a map to Launcelot. "The boy's here, more or less," he said, pointing to an X in the Black Hills region. "Do you think you can get these fools there without being televised or imprisoned?"

"I can," Launcelot said, stoic in his shame. "But..." He glanced over at Hal, who was sweating profusely.

"Take him with you."

"Wait a minute," Hal protested, but the old man made a dismissive gesture. Launcelot put his arm around Hal and led him firmly toward the motorcycles. "You'll be riding with me, then," the big knight said gently.

"No, no." Hal screwed his eyes shut, trying to focus. His voice was growing weak.

"Hist,
Galahad," Launcelot said.

Hal followed without another word.

At a discreet signal from Launcelot, the men slowly left the parking area, the noise of their motorcycles diminished in the pandemonium of the street.

"Sir, do you know anything about the missing boy?" The hand-held camera was now focused on Taliesin.

"What?" he asked irritably, pushing the camera out of his face.

"Four years ago, a boy named Arthur Blessing was kidnapped off the streets of New York City by a gang of motorcyclists—"

"For heaven's sake, it was nothing of the kind!" he sputtered. "No one was kidnapped. The boy was only…" He saw the reporter's eyes gleaming with anticipation. The man had slanted the story in order to get him to talk.

"Go on," the reporter urged.

With a squeal of frustration, Taliesin raised his fist, as if he were about to strike the reporter, then stomped away into the crowd. The reporter tried to follow him, but couldn't find the old man anywhere. A moment later, the motorcade roared down the highway leading out of town.

Titus Wolfe looked out the hospital window at the motorcyclists vanishing down the road.

He had just missed him. It could not have been more than twenty minutes ago that the man who had identified Titus to the FBI had occupied this very room. The floor nurses had not seen him leave.

It was uncanny, Titus thought. Hal Woczniak had known he was coming.

Simply uncanny.

"Sir, may I help you?" a tall nurse with suspicious eyes asked.

"I was just watching the crowd outside," he said pleasantly, automatically ridding himself of his British accent.

His hair was colored dark and cut so that he appeared to be balding. He wore colored contacts as well as glasses, and in his mouth he kept a small device to alter slightly the configuration of his teeth. The result was astonishing: Even his mother would not have recognized him as the man in the FBI sketch.

Titus turned to leave, allowing the nurse to see the bandage on his neck. This was the one place where a wounded man would not look out of place.