Excalibur cut through armor as if it were made of paper. Arthur plowed into Mordred’s army, leaving a wake of corpses behind him. The chosen knights of the Round Table strove to keep up with him, but armed with lesser swords, they had a much more difficult time of it.
Arthur’s rapid advance came to an abrupt halt, however, when he reached Mordred, who was also armed with an Airlia sword, although it was not a key. Alien metal went against alien metal, wielded by human hands, guided by minds that were imprinted with alien personalities and thoughts. The two were well matched and blow after blow was exchanged with little damage. Occasionally a human knight would attempt to enter the fray, but by unspoken agreement, the two Shadows would cut the human down, regardless of which side he was from, and then go back to the personal combat. Slowly a mound of bodies grew around the two combatants.
This was the scene that Gawain came across when he finally caught up with the king. He approached slowly, looking for an opening. As he did so, Arthur stumbled over a submerged root and Mordred used the opportunity to strike hard with the point of his sword, punching through Arthur’s armor and grievously wounding him.
Arthur went down to his knees and Mordred pulled his sword back, preparing to render a mighty swing and sever the king’s head from his body. The blow never connected as Arthur jabbed the point of his sword into Mordred’s leg, cutting in deep, severing the artery. Mordred cursed and staggered, then drew back his sword once more to decapitate the king. This blow also didn’t connect, as Gawain’s sword deflected Mordred’s in midstrike.
Mordred shifted his attack from the wounded king to Gawain. Despite all his skill, Gawain was no match for the Shadow and the superior sword the other carried, even though Mordred was seriously wounded. Gawain was forced to give ground, step by step. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Percival and several other knights approaching the king.
Mordred’s blade punctured Gawain’s armor and seared into his flesh, just below the left part of his rib cage. Gasping in pain, Gawain desperately tried to mount a counteroffensive, attempting blow after blow at his enemy. It ended when Mordred put all his force behind a level strike that sliced through Gawain’s sword and smashed into his chest, severing the armor, and cutting deep into the vital organs.
Gawain remained still, caught on the blade for a couple of seconds, then Mordred jerked the blade back and Gawain fell forward into the swamp, splashing bloody and dirty water onto his opponent.
Mordred turned back toward Arthur and was surprised to see the knights carrying their king — and Excalibur — away. As he started to give chase, a hand holding a black dagger appeared out of the black water and slammed the slim blade into Mordred’s thigh. Mordred howled with pain, and the leg buckled.
Gawain stabbed again and again as his life blood poured out of the wound in his chest. His hand drew back once more, then paused and flopped lifeless in the water.
EPILOGUE
Gawain was dead, his ka destroyed. Mordred had been finished off by Morgana and she had passed the Grail to Merlin.
Atop Avalon, thick clouds were gathering over the island, lightning flickering, followed seconds later by thunder. At the very top of the tor, there was now a stone abbey, with one tall tower. Next to the abbey, a dozen men in armor were gathered round their leader who lay next to the tower’s east wall.
Arthur was dying, of that there was no doubt among the few surviving men. The wounds were too deep, the loss of blood too great. Despite the king’s weakened state, his right hand still firmly held the pommel of his sword Excalibur. Arthur lay on his back, his armor dented and battered. His eyes, bright blue, stared up at the dark heavens.
Several of the knights were looking to the east, in the direction of Camlann. Arthur’s knights had drawn him back from the front lines, as Mordred’s had also done with their own leader. Again and again, the armies charged until the battlefield was strewn with the dead and dying. Few on either side were still alive when they left. War-hardened though they were, none of the knights had ever seen such bloodlust descend on both sides in a battle, not even when they had fought the crazed Scotsmen of the north. But that day noquarter had been given, wounded had been slain where they lay, unarmored auxiliaries hacked to pieces, suited knights pounded to death, blades slammed through visors of helpless knights lying on their backs or under the armpit where they could get through the armor.
None on the tor knew who had won or if the battle was even over yet. Shortly after the king had been seriously wounded by Mordred, these men, the core of the Round Table, had placed Arthur on a pallet and dragged him away while the battle still raged. No courier had since come with word of victory or defeat.
They felt the dark, rolling clouds overhead threatening a vicious storm to be a portent even though Merlin was not there to read the signs. Where the sorcerer had gone the day before the battle was a mystery and there were many who cursed his name. Regardless, they knew the Age of Camelot was done and the darkness of barbarism and ignorance would descend once more on England.
The knights turned in surprise as the thick wooden door in the side of the abbey creaked opened. They had pounded on the door without success when they’d first arrived by boat thirty minutes earlier. In the now open doorway, a man was framed by light from behind. Robed in black, the man’s hands were empty of weapons, his face etched with age, his hair silver. He was breathing hard, as if he had come a long way. Despite his nonthreatening appearance the knights stepped aside as he gestured for them to part and allowed him access to the king, all except the knight closest to Arthur.
“Are you the Fisher-King?” Percival asked as the man came close. He was always the boldest in strange situations or when the king was threatened. Percival’s armor was battered and blood seeped from under his left arm, where a dagger had struck. His right hand gripped his sword, ready to defend Arthur, to atone for not taking the blow that had felled the king. He was a stout man, not tall, but broad of shoulders, dark hair plastered to his head with sweat, a thin red line along one cheek, where a blade had struck a glancing blow.
The stranger paused. “No, I am not a king.”
“Are you a monk?” Percival persisted, leery of allowing a stranger next to the king.
“You may call me that.”
Percival looked over the man’s cloak, noted the trim on the ends of the sleeves, the chain around his neck. “You dress like Merlin. Are you one of the priests of the old religion, the tree worshippers? A sorcerer of the dark arts?”
The man paused. “My line has been here on what you call Avalon since the dawn of time. But we worship no Gods and practice no sorcery.”
“You’re a Druid?” Percival persisted. “It is said the Druids have been on this island forever. That they sing the eternal song here, but we found no one when we arrived.”
“There is no time for your questions.” The man knelt, placing his wrinkled hands over the king’s bloodstained ones.
“Can you heal him?” Percival was now the only one close, the others near the edge of the tor, attention split between what was happening to their king and the water to the east, from which news of victory or the promise of death in defeat would come. They had no doubt that if Mordred’s side won, there would be no mercy.
“The healers — such as they are — will arrive shortly, I believe,” the monk said.
“What healers?” Percival demanded.
“These are things beyond you. You waste precious time. Let me speak to the king in private for a moment — to give him absolution in a way only he will understand.”