Arthur tightened his grip. “My knight, there is something you must remember in your quest.”
“Yes, lord?”
“You can trust no one. Deception has always swirled about the Grail. Be careful.” He released Percival. “Go now! I order you to go!”
Percival leaned over farther and lightly kissed his king’s forehead, then stood and departed.
Arthur was alone on the top of the tor. Only then did he open his eyes once more. He could hear yells from the eastern slope — Mordred’s mercenaries and slaves climbing the steep hillside, but his eyes remained focused on the sky above, waiting.
A metallic golden orb, three feet in diameter, darted out ofthe clouds and came to an abrupt halt, hovering ten feet above Arthur. It stayed there for a few seconds, then without a sound, sped to the east. There were flashes of light in that direction, screams of surprise and terror, then no more noise from the rebel warriors. Arthur was now the only one alive on the Tor.
The orb came back and hovered directly overhead. Arthur looked past it, waiting, holding on to life. Finally, a silver disk, thirty feet wide, flat on the bottom, the upper side sloping to a rounded top, floated silently out of the clouds.
The disk touched down on the tor’s summit, next to the abbey. A hatch on the top opened and two tall figures climbed out. The Ones Who Wait made their way down the sloping side. The shape inside their one-piece white suits indicated they were female, but their eyes were not human but the same red in red as Brynn had revealed Arthur’s to be.
They walked to where the king lay, one standing on either side. They pulled back their hoods, revealing fiery red hair, cut tight against their skulls. Their skin was pale, ice-white, unblemished.
“Where is the key?” one asked, the voice low-pitched.
“A Watcher took it,” Arthur said. “I gave it to him. We must hide it to restore the truce.”
“Are you sure, Artad’s Shadow?” one of the women asked. “We can search for it. The Watchers cannot be trusted. Merlin was one of their order.”
“I am sure,” Arthur cut her off. “It is the way I want it to be. Merlin, no matter what evil he stirred up, was trying to do a good thing. Have you heard of the Grail’s fate?”
“Mordred’s mercenaries had it, but a Watcher in the area took it. We can take the Grail from him.”
“No.”
The two creatures exchanged glances.
“The truce must be restored,” Arthur continued. “It is not yet time.” Arthur slumped back, satisfied that at least that part of what Brynn had told him was true. He knew he could not tell them of the quest he had given Percival. It was the only thing he could think of to get his favorite knight off the tor. If Percival had been there when the others arrived, he would have suffered the same fate as Mordred’s men. Arthur knew his knight would never track down the Grail, but it gave the man a purpose and he had found that such a quest worked well with men like that.
“And Aspasia’s Shadow?” Arthur asked.
“Mordred too dies in this life, but Guides are there, as we are here, to pass Aspasia’s spirit on.”
A spasm of pain passed through Arthur’s body. “Let’s be done with it. I am very tired. Remember, I am only a Shadow also.”
The two looked at each other once more, red eyes meeting, then the first nodded and spoke. “The spirit of Artad must move on,”
“The spirit of Artad must pass on,” the second said.
Arthur nodded. “My spirit must pass on.”
The second knelt, a short black blade in her hand. It easily sliced through the dented armor on Arthur’s chest with one smooth stroke, revealing the padded shirt underneath. With a deft flick of knife, the cloth parted, revealing his chest. Lying on the flesh was a gold medallion, shaped like two arms with no body extended upward in worship. She cut through the thin chain holding the medallion and held it up for the other woman — and Arthur — to see.
“We take your spirit, the spirit of Artad,” she said to Arthur.
The king nodded weakly. “The spirit of Artad passes.” His head bowed down on his chest, his lips moving, but no sound emerging.
“Are you ready to finish the shell that sustained this life?” the first woman asked.
Arthur closed his eyes. “I am ready.”
“Is there anything since the last time you merged with the ka that you need to tell us?”
Arthur shook his head, knowing his silence would ensure that when his spirit was passed on, there would be no memory of Percival’s quest, which would guard the knight for the rest of his life. It was his last thought.
The black blade slammed down into the exposed chest, piercing his heart. The body spasmed once, then was still. The woman stood and placed the blade back in its sheath.
The other woman extended a gloved hand, fist clenched, over the body. The fingers moved, as if crushing something held in it. She spread her fingers and small black droplets, the size of grains of sand, fell onto the king. The droplets hit flesh, armor, and cloth. Where it fell on the latter two, they moved swiftly across the surface until they reached flesh. Where they touched skin, they consumed, boring through and devouring flesh, bone, muscle, everything organic. Within ten seconds nothing was left of the king but his armor.
With no further ceremony, the two swiftly retraced their steps to the craft they had arrived on. It lifted and swiftly accelerated away, disappearing into the storm clouds.
The heavens finally let loose with rain, announcing the arrival with a cacophonous barrage of thunder, lightning playing across the top of the tor. A large bolt struck the high tower of the abbey, shattering stone and mortar, spraying the debris over the remains of the king.
The gentle breeze blowing across the Salisbury plain carried the thick smoke produced by wood and burning flesh over the megalithic stones. It also brought the screams of the condemned and the chants of the Druid priests. The sun had set two hours earlier, but the stones were lit in the glow of the burning wicker man. Over fifteen meters high, the skeleton of the effigy was made of two thick logs serving as main supports up through the legs, reaching to the shoulders, from which crossbeams had been fixed with iron spikes. The skin consisted of wicker laced through the outer wooden frame.
Inside the “skin,” in a jumble of torsos, limbs and heads, were people. Crammed in so that each could hardly move. Some were upright, others sideways, and others upside down, filling every square meter of the interior.
Around the wicker man’s feet were bundles of straw that had just been set on fire, the flames licking up the legs, burning those who filled out the calves and thighs. Their screams of pain mixed with the pleading of those above them, all of which fell on deaf ears as the priests and priestesses who surrounded the wicker man concentrated on their chanting and dancing.
There were four distinct groups surrounding the wicker man, each one oriented on a cardinal direction. To the north they wore yellow robes, signifying air. To the west, blue for water. To the east, green for earth. And to the south, between the wicker man and the mighty stones, they wore red, signifying fire. With the great King Arthur and his foe Mordred newly dead, there was chaos in the land and the Druids had come out of their hiding places to resume their ancient rites.
Those inside the wicker man were all who had received a sentence of death over the course of the past year. Criminals and nonbelievers, and those who had served the king in the local area in suppressing the old religions and collecting taxes. The sentence was being carried out this evening through the purifying flame.
The burning of the condemned was just the beginning of the night’s activities. After the flames died down, the Druids would move to the south, to the standing stones. While the Druids now claimed the stones as their holy place, no one gathered around the wicker man really knew who had placed the inner circles of megaliths or why.