Victories (20 page)

“What about the rest of us?” Angelina asked.

Spirit looked around the room. The Grail Knights all stood together. Brenda and Veronica stood at the edge of the non-Reincarnates, looking a little lost.

“The rest of you are just going to have to settle for being fabulous,” Spirit said. It was as if Muirin stood at her shoulder, whispering the words into her ear. There was scattered laughter. “Remember, just being you, you survived everything that Oakhurst and Breakthrough could throw at us. This doesn’t change anything. Breakthrough is still going to start a war, and we still have to stop it.”

“If it doesn’t matter—” Troy Lang began.

Then why did you do it?
Spirit heard the unspoken words as clearly as if they’d been said aloud.

“No. She’s right.” Kelly Langley—who wasn’t a Reincarnate—stepped forward and turned to face the crowd. “This doesn’t change anything. Maybe you think it’s glamorous to be turned into somebody else. But there’s nothing glamorous about what we’re going out there to do. It’s going to be messy, and a lot of us are going to get hurt. I’m glad to still be me. And I’m also glad we have some experienced dragon-slaying help. And I am going to
kick ass!”

This time, everyone cheered.

EIGHT

When it was still an hour before dawn, they opened the doors of the gym and pushed the black van out into the yard by hand, so that the sound of its engine wouldn’t alert any listeners. The Air Mages with Animal Communication and Animal Control began summoning horses, and Troy turned the basketball court from blacktop to turf.

At the very last minute, Gaheris worked a spell to fill the morning air with a thick, dense, impenetrable fog. The horses that had been summoned came silently through the mist, like ghosts, and stood patiently waiting to be saddled.

“Hey, who’s this guy?” Molly Piercy asked. She was one of the Air Mages who’d helped call the loose horses. She patted the shoulder of a horse none of them had ever seen before. The animals the Oakhurst students had practiced Endurance Riding on were all chestnuts or bays—this one was so white he nearly glowed.

“He’s not from anywhere around Radial,” Brenda said. “I know everybody’s horses from the county.”

“And the Shadow Knights’ horses are all black,” Kelley said. “Okay, who wants to be a target?” They all knew that the reason commanders from the old days used to ride white horses into battle was because they could be seen for miles. Their riders were automatically targets.

“I think he’s here for me,” Spirit said. She walked up to him and stroked his nose. “Hello, Passelande. It’s been a long time.”

The White Horse of Britain nodded his head up and down as if he understood, and she leaned against him for a moment, savoring the warmth and the familiar scent of horse.

“All of our old friends have come,” Burke said, coming to her through the mist. At his side walked an enormous white hound. It looked a little like a wolfhound, and a lot like something nobody had ever seen before.

“Cafall!” Spirit said in delight. “Where did you come from?”

Cafall—Arthur’s hound—shoved his wet nose into her hand. She scratched his ears.

“From the same place Passelande and all the rest came from,” Burke said, stroking Cafall’s head as well. “Because Mordred is loosed, and the last battle is to be fought.”

“The Palug Cat, and the Green Knight, and the Boar of Triath,” Spirit said. “They all stand now, with us—or against us.” Arthur’s Court had been a place not entirely of the world in which they now stood, and creatures of Otherrealm had moved as freely through it as the men and women of Britain.

“It’s a good omen,” Burke answered. “Are you ready?”

“I am,” she answered. He made a stirrup of his hand and tossed her up onto Passelande’s back. She didn’t need saddle or bridle to ride this horse.

All too quickly, it seemed, their mounts were ready. Burke rode beside her on Hengroen, another of the White Horses of Britain, of whom it had been said that he was swift enough to outrace the sun and the moon together.

And now we ride to battle,
the ghostly voice whispered in her mind.

*   *   *

Shrouded in illusions and blanketed by mist, the war party circled wide around The Fortress and the peasant village that lay at its foot. Spirit and Burke led them, but behind the two of them (she was glad to see it) Oakhurst mages and Reincarnate knights mingled freely. She gripped the hilt of her Hallow tightly, as if it might disappear if she didn’t. The weight of the sword blade was heavy across her thighs.
I should have asked Vivianne to make a scabbard for me,
she thought absently. The sword’s true scabbard had been as magical as Excalibur itself. But Mordred had destroyed it long ago.

It seemed as if they rode through a landscape as deserted as the one Mordred meant to make. After a few minutes, Loch rode up to them, his Spear in his hand, and took the lead. His Pathfinder Gifts could lead them to Oakhurst even through the fog. Dawn turned the mist first to gold, then to white, then the sun burned it away as they rode westward, and when it was gone, Spirit could see they were a few miles past the edge of the village. She urged Passelande into a ground-eating trot.

It seemed strange to ride as if she were an outlaw, without banners flapping in the wind, without bright gilded armor and bright surcoats blazoned with the devices that identified their wearers. Spirit shook her head, trying to get rid of the strange double-vision of Guinevere’s memories. If they were lucky, they could win the battle today without striking a single blow.

But of course, they were never lucky.

*   *   *

The spur road that ran through Radial and then connected up with the Interstate used to run past the gates of Oakhurst, but now there was nothing there but grass. Their horses vaulted the low wall at the foot of the hill and galloped up the slope. Spirit heard yelps of glee from behind her as some of the riders forgot themselves in the excitement of the jump. Ahead she could see the main building of what had once been the school. Just as the scouts had said, the roof was gone, and the upper stories were smoke-blackened and half-ruined from the fire Kelly had set only a little more than a week ago to cover their escape. But the first floor—and the Great Hall—seemed to be intact.

Spirit vaulted from Passelande’s back and ran up the steps, Excalibur flashing in her hand. In that moment she was Guinevere and no one else—Guinevere who meant to put an end to Mordred and the dark centuries of plot and counterplot that had led to this day.

The door wasn’t locked. She flung it open and ran inside.

And stopped.

Here was the monstrous stone fireplace with the mocking crest of Oakhurst above it—the oak tree with the serpent coiled among its branches, the reversed Cup and the broken Sword, and above them the Bear, Arthur’s symbol, slain, its head set upon a silver plate. Mordred had blazoned his intentions in plain sight, knowing none of his enemies would possess the memories that would let them read it.

Here was the grand double staircase that led to the upper floors, its carpet sodden with water and white with mildew.

But the great Tree that should have stood between the staircases was gone.

“No!”
she screamed. “Where is it?”

“Gone.” Burke had followed her in.

“They moved it. We’re too late.” Loch came forward and knelt upon the tile floor. He reached out and brushed away dirt and leaves to reveal a thin band of metal and the sheared-off remains of several metal spikes. “They must have taken it out just after the fire.” He stood, and pointed up toward the ceiling. “You can see where it was. And look—there are marks all over the floor. They probably dragged it out on some kind of sled.”

“And now it is secure within the walls of their great fortress,” Dagonet said, joining them. “And the day is lost.”

“No,” Spirit said suddenly. “No, wait. It isn’t.”

She turned around. Most of the “army” had followed her inside. A couple of them had even ridden their horses up the steps. “We can still win!” she shouted.

“How?” Angelina shouted back. “Because it sure looks like that tree is gone.”

“Yes!” Spirit said. “They took it—and it’s at The Fortress now. Mordred didn’t dare leave it unprotected! He walks this world again, just as he swore he would—but it is his own necromancy that allows it, not The Merlin’s magic. And so, I see a path to victory. You, Dagonet, and you, Loholt, and you, Gareth—all of you belong to this time and place. So do I. But Mordred doesn’t. He is not a Reincarnate, like the Grail Knights or the Shadow Knights. He has stepped from the world in which he was imprisoned to this one.”

“And I am sure you’re about to tell us how that means we haven’t just lost,” Gareth said, sounding in that moment more like Dylan Williams than he did like a Grail Knight of Arthur’s Court.

“It means he’s expecting another battle like Camlann,” she answered instantly. “Why not? It was his big defeat—but this time, he thinks he can’t lose. He knows by now he’ll be facing the Grail Knights, but why should he worry? We’re a bunch of teenagers. He’s got us outnumbered. He’s got the Shadow Knights. He’s got The Fortress. And—don’t forget—he’s got hostages.” Everyone in his brand new peasant village was an innocent bystander, and Spirit was sure Mordred wouldn’t hesitate to kill them if that would bring him triumph.

“You are not making a really convincing case for our victory,” Burke said in a low voice.

“So if he wants Camlann Part Two—we’re going to pretend to give it to him,” Spirit said. “We’re going to feed him the Middle Ages until he chokes on it.”

“‘On second thought, let’s not go to Camelot! It is a silly place!’” Kelly called from the back of the crowd.

For an instant Spirit froze in disappointment. Then she recognized the quote—
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
—about the same time everyone else did.

Burke and Loch began to whoop with laughter. And Spirit joined them.

*   *   *

Mark Rider had had better days.

Twenty years ago, on the eve of his graduation from Oakhurst, the man he’d known as Dr. Vortigern Ambrosius, Headmaster of Oakhurst Academy, had summoned him to his office. And there, Mark’s entire world had been turned inside out. He’d been given the chance to live, to serve Mordred of Britain as his Shadow Knight—or to die, his magic blasted from his mind.

It hadn’t been a hard choice to make.

Not then.

For more than twenty years he’d enjoyed the wealth and power that came of being a member of Mordred’s Inner Circle. In his other life, he’d been a king. In this life, he had a kingdom his other self couldn’t have imagined—a business empire that brought him millions of dollars, and international adulation. He had a queen as his wife—Morgause of Orkney. Even Tristan had been returned to him—his brother Teddy. None of them could imagine a better life than the one they had—using their magic, secretly, on all the mundane cattle of the world. There had been nothing beyond their reach. And the Shadow Knights had gathered around Breakthrough’s banner. It was Mordred’s long-forgotten battle-standard. A fine joke, Mark had thought once.

He’d known his master meant to rule. It was why Breakthrough had been created, and why the shadow-network of corporations controlled by Breakthrough had been built. Money was power. In this new world, one didn’t need noble birth or great armies—only money. And so Mark had thought he knew what Mordred meant to do. Between money and magic, he could make himself President of the United States of America. Bend the government to his will as he could so easily do, and he could make Great Britain a colony. He would rule over an empire vaster than any they’d once known. He could make himself, with time and patience, ruler of all of Earth.

And then Mark had discovered what Mordred’s true plans were. Not to rule Earth as it was—but to smash it into a caricature of ancient Britain, the kingdom he had lost, and rule over that.

And Mark couldn’t stop him.

He’d tried. When Mordred first summoned him to tell him the time was near, and to tell Mark what part he would play, he’d protested. Tried to argue for a more modern endgame. But no one who wished to live would willingly face the Black Dragon’s fury. And so Mordred had given his orders. And Mark had obeyed them.

Even Tristan and Morgause think this is a good idea,
he thought bitterly.
Tristan has never thought past his next entertainment, and my beloved wife thinks she can trade a queen’s crown for an empress’s coronet.

Morgause meant to betray him the moment she no longer needed him. Tristan thought gleefully of a world in which there was no law but his own whim. Mark was the only one who thought Mordred’s plan was madness, and he kept his mouth shut. If any others among the Shadow Knights feared what was to come, they kept their thoughts well hidden. Even when the plan moved to its final stages—gathering the locals together and englamouring them—Mark heard no whisper of complaint from his people. Why should he? They were going to be the new rulers. The Shadow Knights had gathered from across the globe, converging on this insignificant little town in the middle of nowhere to wait for the moment of Mordred’s triumph.

Mark climbed the stone steps that led to the ramparts of The Fortress. The morning breeze ruffled his hair. It was a beautiful spring day. From here he could see the highway. Cars sped by, filled with motorists who had no idea the world was going to end a fortnight from today. He could feel the thrum of magic beneath his feet as Breakthrough’s Jaunting Mages emptied warehouses a hundred miles distant, filling the storerooms of The Fortress with the last of the necessary supplies. Below him, he could see peasants tilling the fields. There was no need for that: an Earth Mage could cause a crop to spring up, ripe and ready for harvest, with nothing more than a spell. But Mordred’s world had contained peasants, and so peasants he must have.

You think ill of your liege at your peril, Mark of Cornwall,
he reminded himself.
Mordred sees and knows all. And yet.…