“If you have to ask questions, Merlin, ask into the deaths of Lord Darrowfield and his sons. Those killings were-”
Merlin cut him off impatiently. “I have a growing suspicion those murders were related to these. Somehow, I don’t know how. Not yet.”
Dawn was showing itself more and more, or what passed for dawn in those conditions. The world was still dark, but the first faint traces of morning light were beginning to show. Banks of fog kept rolling in, thicker and thicker. Daylight illuminated them; the whole world seemed bathed in a dull gray, opalescent light. Scattered fires throughout the hamlet provided the only real contrast; everything else was matted to the same dull, dark, but brightening gray. And the fog was so thick Merlin and Arthur could hardly see a thing. Merlin kept scanning the landscape.
Through the blinding fog, he noticed that more and more torches were being lit in the town. No people were visible through the pervasive fog, only their lights. Softly he said, “They will be coming for us anytime now.”
He had hardly finished the sentence when the various torches and the men carrying them formed into a procession and headed in the direction of the caged prisoners. But also through the fog he thought he saw another light, a more distant one. It flared into existence, then vanished, presumably quickly extinguished. Were Bedivere and his soldiers here at last, then?
The marchers and their lights approached. Slowly the forms of Marmaduke, Lulua and Robin became visible through the mist, more and more distinctly as they came nearer and nearer. They were walking with unnatural rapidity. Marmaduke led them all, and he was grinning like a naughty schoolboy who had just pulled a prank. Lulua was plainly struggling to keep up with the others. She puffed, and her breath added a bit to the mist in the air.
Marmaduke stopped six feet in front of the cages, and a moment later Lulua took her place at his right side. “Well,” he said heartily, “good morning. I am sorry there is no sun for you. This would have been the last sunrise you’ll ever know.”
Arthur glared and said nothing. Merlin, seemingly at ease with himself and the situation, smiled and said, “We have had our last midnight. That is enough.”
Marmaduke laughed more loudly than seemed appropriate. “You’re in a pleasant mood, Wizard, for a man facing his end.”
Merlin shrugged. “Philosophy teaches us nothing if not how to face death. I am facing the two of you. Socrates himself would envy me.”
Marmaduke was unsure whether he was being ridiculed, and it showed. His grin vanished and he stopped laughing. “Arthur, do you have nothing to say?”
Before Arthur could respond, Lulua spoke up. She pointed a finger at Merlin. “Some sorcerer you are. Spending the night trapped in a cage. Hah!”
It was the opening Merlin had been waiting for. He ignored her and faced the warlord. “You want to be King of all England, not just Paintonbury, Marmaduke, to take Arthur’s place. Do you really think killing us this way will accomplish that?”
Marmaduke seemed taken aback, not by the question itself, but by the fact it was being asked. “When you are out of the way,” he said slowly, as if he was thinking at the same time and it was an effort, “when all of this nonsense about peace and love and brotherhood is gone, too, then England can get back to warfare. That is the way it’s always been. It’s what we know. All we have ever known. I was a man then, a true warrior, a leader. I was respected and feared. Those were better times.”
Suddenly, loudly, Lulua belched. Her chins quivered.
Merlin looked to her. “And you. You have promised Marmaduke your support, of course?”
She held a fingertip up to her mouth and pressed it to her lips. “The blood of kings carries special properties. Magical ones. When Arthur is dead, we will know if he truly was a king, and meant to rule.”
“And what about Marmaduke’s blood? When will you test that-after Morgan le Fay is on the throne of England?”
Marmaduke glanced at her. Plain suspicion showed in his face. But Arthur had caught Merlin’s drift, and before either the witch or the warlord could answer, he spoke up. “If you want the throne, Marmaduke, handing it to this woman is an odd way of getting it.”
Marmaduke’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Arthur smiled an indulgent smile, like a schoolteacher lecturing a slow pupil. “Think, for goodness’ sake. Why would you assume her loyalty is to you?”
He was wrestling with the thought. It showed. “She’s the witch of Paintonbury. Who else would she be loyal to?”
Slowly, still smiling serenely, Arthur intoned, “To my sister.”
And Merlin added quickly, “Yes, to Morgan le Fay.”
Marmaduke glared at Lulua. Suspicion was growing, and that was what the prisoners wanted. “You told me-”
“It’s a lie!” Lulua screeched the words. “Can’t you see what they’re trying to do? Think.”
“These women,” Merlin went on quite calmly, “these witches, used to reign virtually supreme in England by claiming they had the ear of the gods. Their word was law, their will went unchallenged. By anyone, not the strongest baron. The civil wars and Arthur’s ascent put an end to that.”
Lulua started to object, but Arthur took up the game. “My sister has hardly made it a secret that she wants the throne. As high priestess of the witches and their religion-as the ‘Great Queen,’ as she styles herself-she thinks it is her right. But men rule here now. If you kill us-if you kill us at the behest of this woman”-he snarled the word-“you will be handing it back to them.”
“No!” Lulua’s alarm was growing. Her face, like Marmaduke’s, was a book where all her thoughts could be read. “I serve Paintonbury. I serve you, Marmaduke!”
But the seeds of doubt had been planted. Marmaduke furrowed his brow, like a slow dog trying to figure out how to get a bone. “Lulua, we have to talk about this.”
“There is nothing to talk about. They are lying, trying to set us against each other. Can’t you see that?”
“Follow me. We have to talk.” He turned on his heel and began to stalk away. Lulua glared at the prisoners, then started to follow.
Arthur called after them. “I’d talk quickly, if I were you. With the light of dawn, Merlin’s power increases.”
Over his shoulder Marmaduke said, “Power? What power? He can’t get out of a wooden cage.”
“You’ll see, Marmaduke.”
The warlord and the witch kept walking. After a moment they were far enough away for a private conversation. Each in turn gesticulated wildly and raised his voice, obviously threatening, however mildly. Watching them, Merlin said to Arthur, “Playing for time is never very hard with these types. I wonder England has lasted as long as it has, with people like these running things. But I thought I had dissuaded you from dredging up this wizard nonsense.”
“It’s useful.” Arthur was sanguine. “Have you not seen what is growing around us, out there in the fog?”
“I have. What is the point of-”
“Be quiet. They’re coming back.”
“But Arthur, you can’t see any more through this fog than I can. Suppose these aren’t our men. Suppose they are more of Marmaduke’s? Or a raiding party from some other warlord?”
“Be quiet, I said.”
The sky was lightening more and more. The world was still that dull gray, not light yet but not exactly dark. Merlin watched the surrounding fog and saw more and more glints of armor and weaponry. Then he glanced at the nearby mud where Bruce’s body was slumped.
Marmaduke stopped ten feet away. “This,” he said firmly, indicating the poor object that had been his son, “will be burned. My men have nearly finished building the pyre. You,” he added, pointing from Arthur to Merlin, “will be burned with it.”
Arthur, keeping a close watch on the surrounding fog, intoned loudly, “You are making a great mistake, Marmaduke. Merlin is the greatest wizard in the world. He can summon armies out of the air,” Arthur threatened. “All the forces known to the wisest philosophers are at his command.”