18 Prometheus' penalty
Armand cursed viciously under his breath when his stallion stumbled for the umpteenth time. Not that he hadn't had it coming. Ever since he'd made an extremely narrow escape from Camelot's battlefield, he'd constantly asked too much of the animal.
The poor bugger was done for, no doubt about it. Tired out and wounded, the beast would not carry him much further.
He dismounted, pondered for a second to kill the horse, but couldn't get his heart around the thought.
The stink of death was in his nostrils, on his skin, his hands, his clothes.
Dead lay the proud forces of magicians, dead many of those he'd taught their art, dead those of whom he'd thought as the new era, the future of the Isle of the Blessed.
Too many dead already, men and beast.
Morgwyn took saddle and bridle off and slapped his mount on the back until the stallion cantered a few paces away with his last strength, whinnying miserably.
"Go away, you idiot" Armand said. "Before someone sees you and takes you for his plate. That's all you are from now on, a piece of meat."
The once beautiful, magnificent stallion looked at his master questioningly. His ears twitched. He was unwilling to leave his human companion of many years.
"Still thinking you have a duty to fulfil, aye?" Armand asked with a dry laugh. "You don't know when to better quit, just like Arthur. Go away, I tell you. It's the butcher for you and the gallows for me if they catch us. It was all for nothing, y' hear me?"
The stallion perked his head up once or twice, neighed softly, and was gone.
Morgwyn pulled himself together and began his walk.
And though he walked and walked, all he really wanted was sleep. Lie down, and never get up again. His dreams, his hopes, his great schemes – ashes and dust. The Isle would rise no more. He would have given in, laid down and awaited his death, had it not been for one last task not yet fulfilled.
While he walked, Armand silently wrestled with his own remorse.
He'd never trusted Morgana, nor the aristocrats or other notabilities of the Pendragon court, who'd turned their coats from one Pendragon rule to the other. Sail with the tide, Camelot, aye, sail with the tide.
But the High Master had had faith in Arthur and Merlin. More fool he was to think that two naïve, moony boys could change the tides of time.
And when Arthur had become weak, when he'd gone astray, when he'd forsaken those who'd paved his way into power, when he had taken sides with those who would abandon him at the first sight of a better bargain, it had all seemed so simple.
Teach the royal boy a lesson, give him a real scare, show him how power had to be shared among the peoples of Albion. Most of all, drive a wedge between him and this slimy, greedily sucking Christian worms that made up his court. All of this was to be achieved by one, decisive strike against the heart of Camelot. No dragged out war, no long campaigns with thousands of deaths – what for?
A clear victory for the Isle would have given Armand leverage enough to force any peace agreement on Arthur that the Isle dictated. Subsequently, the High Master – in Morgause's name, of course – could have taken the Princess Margaly, and brought up the heir to the Crown of Camelot on the Isle of the Blessed, as a true daughter of the Old Religion.
Peace, stability, reliability had been within his reach – Armand's had been the one final battle to end all battles.
Morgwyn knew he could have done it; he would have done it, had he not been betrayed by his own people. Yes, that was the bitter truth of his defeat; Armand of Morgwyn, High Master of the Blessed Isle, Chosen Consort of the High Priestess herself, had been betrayed by the very same power he'd fought all his life to protect.
And he had thought he knew every twist of Morgause's mind, that he had total control over her!
He should have seen her betrayal coming, back in Ealdor, then and there. With Morgana, his sister, as well as Merlin, his best and closest friend, the only magician of some standing who'd always be unconditionally loyal to him, being in Morgwyn's hold, Arthur would have been hard put to defy the Isle in anything. But magic had taken Merlin and Morgana away, right under Armand's nose – he should have known it wasn't a coincidence.
After today, the High Master could no longer deceive himself. Neither the horrid magical torrent, which destroyed Alined's forces together with Armand's sorcerers, nor the Great Dragon's timely attack had come out of the blue to rescue an already beaten Pendragon King from surrender and captivity.
There was only one will in this universe strong enough, one power focused enough and one talent schooled enough to achieve so total an annihilation as Morgwyn had seen it at Camelot
The High Master had been defeated by the very heart, the very core of the Isle itself – the representative of the Great Mother on Earth, the High Priestess – Morgause.
This name, this betrayal was what kept the distraught man upright and on his feet.
If all was lost, if all he'd ever done had been in vain, he would not leave this world without her.
Oh, he should have known better than to trust her oaths of undying love and allegiance, he should have known in the end she'd always chose her sister over him, he should have killed the bitch when he still could.
Why on earth had he not seen it coming?
Again and again Morgause had spat on all sacred rules of the Old Religion, to keep her family in power, to foster them above all else.
When Morgause refused to have her unnatural sister killed, the destroyer, the born vessel of all evil, even after Merlin, in defiance of all laws of the Isle, had got the Pendragon tart pregnant – Armand should have known he couldn't rely on the High Priestess any longer.
Morgwyn had made her what she was and she dared betray him!
Armand would not let that go unpunished.
It was the second nightfall after the battle that he reached the shores of the Sacred Lake.
He called for the boat, but it was nowhere to be found.
Mists swirled over the lake and on its shores. It was dead quiet, no bird, no tree that stirred. The moon rose, but it could only be guessed as its light shimmered vaguely through the fog.
Morgwyn shrugged with a sarcastic grin. If Morgause wanted to play so childish a game, he'd not disappoint her. All her tricks would only delay the inevitable, now that he knew who was behind his downfall. It would take all three ancient powers of magic combined to fend him off, and that Morgause would not achieve!
The High Master raised his arms and called for his power.
His magic surged through his body, a hot current in his veins, fighting the restrictions of his physical existence. He screamed in triumph when it became one with nature around him, with every stone, every piece of life that slept in the woods.
The water swirled and flooded to and fro, restless and nervous, like a living being. It formed high walls to his left and right. A path was dry in between, it would lead him directly to the Isle itself.
Morgause would no longer mock him.
Wrapped in his power, protected by it as by a dark, floating coat rimmed with light, Armand stepped into the lake and the water pulled back even further, away from him.
The High Master walked with confidence on the lake's now dry ground, ten steps, twenty, thirty.
He walked on and on before he noticed that he had walked too far. Around him he saw and heard the water, the fog, the howling wind that had come with his power. Nothing else.
Furious, Armand turned left, he turned right, walked back and forwards again.
The Sacred Lake was bare and desolate. There was no land. Where the white towers should have been glowing in the moonlight, where the strong walls of the inner temple should have greeted him and where the Sacred Lights should have shone through the windows – all he could see was a grey, heaving, lifeless mass of water.
"MORGAUSE!"
Armand thundered the name into the darkness. He ran, blade unsheathed and raised high, the veins and muscles in his neck protruding in his wrath. "MORGAUSE!"
Suddenly the water stirred violently. It banked up until it towered high above his head. The wind screamed, a high pitched tone which told the exhausted man that it was under his control no longer.
Stumbling, falling and finally crawling, Armand reached the safe shore a mere second before the waters fell from their height to the ground of the Sacred Lake, burying and drowning all in their reach beneath them.
Panting heavily, speechless, Armand stared at Khilgarrah sitting by the Lake. "Have you..." the High Master stammered "why did you..."
"Save you from the fate you deserve?" the Great Dragon retorted acidly. "Indeed, why did I? Ask the one who begged me to save your worthless skin."
"Where is he?" Morgwyn howled with freshly found rage. "What has your master done to the Isle of the Blessed?"
"Merlin has nothing to do with your survival" the dragon said. "But there is one other being in this world whose call in need I can't forgo, as no creature of magic could forgo her plea. Your life is the Lady Morgause's last gift to you. Unlike her, I doubt your ability to use it wisely."
Armand shivered when the contours of the huge beast became blurred. The dragon seemed to melt away into the mists that danced around him. "She can't" he whispered, horrified. "She can't do that. She has no right..."
"It was you who left the Lady no choice, High Master. The verdict is clear: You lived by the sword, you lived by force, by violence and by betrayal. You shall go on living by these means to all eternity, and only those who do the same shall be your friends. For you have forced magic to withdraw from these earthly realms and for that, magic now abandons you, forever."
"Please" Armand stammered. His fight had left him, he was shaking with fear, "please...not that..." then, all of a sudden, he roared again, with desperate rage "Morgause can't do this, High Priestess or no. There is no congregation of magic in all Albion powerful enough to install a curse of exile against a High Master of the Isle."
"If I were you" Khilgarrah retorted, whilst his features became more and more indistinct "I would not rely on that."
"Why shouldn't I?" Armand came up trumps, laughing. "All three ancient powers must unite to exile me. The Isle, the Dragons and..."
"The Druids" the dragon finished his sentence for him. " Algernon and the Druid Elders will join the Isle when it fades from this world, tonight."
"You're lying, Khilgarrah. I don't believe you."
"Think again" said the the dragon. "Did you really think that the people who fear for their kids any time you go near them would fight for you? Algernon came up with the whole scheme of the Isle withdrawing from this world, Algernon risked his life when he came here to talk to Morgause and it was Algernon who brought us the ancient spell of exile for a scoundrel like you!"
"Curse the bloody bastard!" Armand screamed in despair. "He delivered Albion into the hands of Christian fanatics. What future do they bring to the Druid tribes? The pyre and the sword, that's all they'll ever have to give to Algernon's people!"
"Not without magic" Khilgarrah retorted icily. "The Christians can't burn innocent people on the pyre for witchcraft that does no longer exist in the real world."
Armand laughed hysterically, "Was Uther Pendragon ever interested in his victims' guilt or innocence? Will the Church not do the same, if it suits their purpose? Are you really that naïve?"
The Great Dragon shook his head. "Do not split hairs with me, Morgwyn, whatever crimes the Church will commit, it was you, your willingness to use foul means or fair to reach your goal, that made them powerful enough to do it. Twist and turn as much as you like, High Master: Your fate has been sealed by your own deeds."
Before Armand's aghast eyes, the Great Dragon rose to his full height and enfolded his wings. "Hear me, Armand of Morgwyn, once High Master of the Isle of the Blessed - From this day on, you will wander this world alone. No magic shall aid you, no child of the Old Religion see you, no creature of the wood, of the sky or of the waters will heed you, all humans will loath you but the greatest villains. Children will flee from you and death himself will not claim you, until the day on which the Isle's gates will be opened again by the last of the High Priestesses. Only Morgause's life force can open the doors she has closed."
"That's impossible as soon as Morgause and the Isle have left this world, taking all magic with them" Armand whined.
"You were so high and mighty when it came to deciding the fate of others" Khilgarrah's fading voice answered. "So full of ideas and of great plans. Live on them yourself for a change!"
With that, the Great Dragon was gone.
The Lake was sleeping peacefully in the light of the full moon. No mist, no clouds tarnished the glittering mirror in which the stars' reflection shone through the night. The Sacred Waters were serene, mysterious and silent.
The Isle of the Blessed was nowhere to be seen.
Armand fell to his knees. He muttered something to himself, he didn't know what.
He looked at his hands. Mere hours ago, the hands of a seasoned but strong warrior. Now two trembling, brittle, wrinkled things. Hastily he crawled closer to the water, stared at his image as it was shown to him and screamed out in heart breaking anguish.
He was bald, but for a few tufts of white, grizzly hair. His face was haggard, disfigured by wrinkles and sallow.
He was old. Old and feeble and unbelievably ugly.
For how long he gave himself to his misery he could not say.
Finally he felt he was cold, and very tired. A few metres away from the lake shore, a way that cost him a considerable part of his remaining strength to make, he called for his magic to light a fire, like he had always done, since his fourth birthday.
Magic wouldn't come. Where it had been, he felt a deep, cold, dark cavern in his soul. Empty. And useless.
Armand curled up on the forest ground, covered his aching body with his coat and did something he hadn't done in many, many years – he cried and cried until sleep put him out of his misery for a few, precious hours. When he fell asleep, just before he was lost to the world, it felt as if something brushed by his mind, like a hand touching his forehead, but it was gone before he was sure it had been really there. The last warm, considerate, longing touch he'd ever feel.
In the morning, he would not remember it.
He woke up when a man's voice shouted at him. "What are you doing here, old man? You'll freeze to death out here. Where are your folks?"
Bewildered, Armand stared at the handful of people standing around him. A merchant, by the looks of him, travelling with his wife, teenage daughter and an escort of mercenaries.
Again, the man asked for Armand's name and family.
Morgwyn swallowed once and cleared his throat. "Jeffrey" he then said. "Jeffrey from Gryffyn, Sir."
The merchant was taken aback. "Christ's blood, that's one of the villages destroyed by King Alined's troops. I heard about it only hours ago. There were no survivors."
"No one" Armand said nervously "but me. My folks are dead. Help me, Christ will reward you."
"Leave him be, Marco" the woman yelled from her cart. "Who knows, he could be sick. We have our child and household to consider."
The merchant sighed, rolled his eyes. He took off his coat as well as a few coins from his purse. "Take it, old man, and don't think the worse of me for it. The Good Samaritan must have been a bachelor."
Armand stared after him and his companions when they travelled on.
So the Great Dragon's curse was coming true already, no decent folks would take him in.
He looked at the coins in his hand, and at the fine coat he'd been given. Worth a pretty sum. Enough to buy a place on a ship that left Albion's coast, if he could make it to the nearest harbour.
If Armand of Morgwyn had to live among villains from now on, it should be villains worth his while!