31 Tidal Waves
Uther paced his quarters impatiently, as if the constant exercise could ease the wrath that was eating him up from the inside. If what he felt was anger and spite. It might be something entirely different. Anger burnt, but gave strength. What he was feeling now – that hurt. And it weakened. Two men dead, Arthur gone, run, again, from his father's understanding and forgiving love….
But – no. It wasn't possible. Much more likely the dead witch's spell outlived her. It wasn't unheard of. Her defiant hatred against everything that was Pendragon reached out of her grave to claim what had been hers for a time, Uther's offspring, his son and grandson. A perfectly logical explanation. Much more logical than the one the Saxons had provided. That Arthur had been Uther's prisoner. A prisoner whose wife had been murdered, whose son had been threatened, and that men such treated, given the slightest chance, had a regrettable tendency to make a run for it.
The door burst open and Hengist strolled in. "No sign" he said, before he spat on the floor close to Uther's feet, "except another corpse, one of mine. Without a sword but with his throat cut. Your whelp may not be right in the head, but there's nothing wrong with his arm!"
"There's a lot wrong with Arthur's hands" Uther snarled, disdainfully backing away from the other.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot" Hengist said with a grin "heard that one before. You took care of that, some way back. How do your fine, peace-loving Christians say? You spare the rut you spoil the child. Pity you did not spoil your son's swordmanship."
"I'm telling you, it could not have been my son. His men must be closer than you thought."
"They didn't budge. My spies are a bit more reliable than your parental judgement."
Uther's hand went to the hilt of his sword.
"Peace, my Lordship" Hengist said sarcastically. "What would I know about raising Princes? I've only got a bunch of promising bastards to my name. But then, I'm not a King…" he picked his teeth and spat out again. "At least – not yet!"
"If you ever want to hold some authority in Albion" Uther retorted "you and your brother better see to it that my son is back here with me before dawn falls. With him, Camelot will come to us all wine and roses. Without him, the stronghold will close its gates, and we'll pay a King's ransom in blood before we can make it even through the outer walls."
Hengist stepped back, grinned again, and bent down in a mock bow, stretching out his behind like a duck wading on land before he shook it like an angry goose. "Whatever Your Majesty's wish, my brother and I just live to serve. Good Day to you, a perfect peace of mind, and good digestion."
The Saxon was out of the door before he could make out what Uther was shouting after him. "By Odin's name" he laughingly told his brother Horsa in the court yard "I swear, the old fool is getting worse by the minute."
"I'm sick of the lot" Horsa growled. "This Gaulish Count is no better. I came by his quarters, thought I'll tell him that his not-beloved cousins are absent without leave, and you know what? This …. Horty, Horry or what's-his-name is posing in front of the mirror, and he tells me, he's fine with that. He's had a new black robe made, for his cousins' funeral, and it's not yet finished. Mad, I tell you, freaks, cuckoo pants, the lot of them."
"Big brother in his wisdom could sure enlighten me on the highly complex strategic reasons for us and our army being in liege with a bunch of cuckoo pants" Hengist said. "If a humble baby-brother might ask that question of our people's most exalted and illustrious leader."
Horsa turned away from the stable door they'd just reached, to scrutinize his sibling's treacherously innocent face. Through the hurly-burly of smiths hammering, servants running to and fro, soldiers coming from or going on duty, noisy animals and chatting folks in a not altogether normal day in a big stronghold harbouring an army, came his growl: "You are getting too big for your boots, little Hengist."
"Runs in the family" the younger brother retorted. "You did once, and now our father and elder brother are dead."
"Just that they weren't our father and brother."
"Yeah, our Lady Mother took care of that" Hengist sighed in feigned despair. "And not that you ever told anyone we have no claim on leadership of our people. Took you years and years to bring that army together, all we ever had is bound in it. Or was. How many men we've lost in our fight against this Arthur fellow? Perhaps you could explain to me why we want to risk our precious men against the High King of Albion, if we do not need to."
"What's on this devious mind of yours, little brother?"
"Why keep up with the old idiot, our precious, self-styled Black Duke, why endure the fool Hortensius-fuckin-Comte d'Auvergne, if we can make a deal with the man who's real King of the realm already? I say we find Arthur, tell him our price, make a deal, and for a handsel, we give him his annoying relatives' heads on a platter."
Tunelessly, Horsa whistled through his teeth whilst eying his brother slyly. "His Majesty the High King of Albion has a reputation of being squeamish when it comes to cutting off heads."
"Not when it comes to cutting off our men's heads. He's done some fine cutting lately. With his own royal, lily-white hands."
"Uther is his father, Hortensius his cousin. Blood runs thicker than water anywhere, aaand the Albions are a strange lot at the best of times."
"A father who's murdered Arthur's wife. Once broke his son Arthur's bones in torture. Tried to incarcerate him for life. Would perhaps kill Arthur's son, if it came to his crazed mind. A cousin who's having a robe made for his funeral. If you were Arthur – how much true and trusting family love would you harbour in your tender bosom for such a bloodthirsty lot of wayward relatives?"
"Not much" Horsa said with an almost invisible smile.
"So, I say we throw in our lot with the young Dragon, let the old one go to rot. Remember why we came here, brother Horsa: Spoils to pay our men, land to settle and feed their families, peasants to work for the lot, and the thrones of some juicy parts of Albion for you and me, and for our kids to put their arses on 'til Ragnarök. 'We leave our meagre fields behind for good', you said. 'In Albion they grow fat enough to be rolled down their fine streets just by looking at their fertile land', you said. 'Let's go and get our share', you said. And we came. We trusted you."
"Remind me to make you my Court Orator, once we've done it, little Hengist. You have a gift for making it all sound fair and easy. Plain sailing from here to Walhalla. What if Arthur refuses? Or betrays us afterwards?"
"Why should he? We get rid of a real threat to him, without dirtying his noble paws, he's got lands in abundance; we have an army to remind him of his promises. But why fight when we can have all we want without a single shot in anger? Yeah, his army rolled straight over us, but he's lost a deal of good men, too. And not even Albion's fertile lands breeds them like rabbits."
Horsa shrugged, and looked to the ground. "Might be. Might not be. Let me think."
"What is there to think? Plain as a nose."
"I said" snapped the older "let me think!"
Hengist rolled his eyes. "How many centuries will that take?"
"Careful, little brother. No good biting off more than you can chew. If there is something to bite into, that is."
"What's that supposed to mean, oh my great Horsa-of-whom-the-bards-will-soon-sing-songs?"
"We could perhaps deal with Arthur, if we had him. Is he here somewhere?" Horsa made a fine show of looking all around, and snorted. "In your pants, perhaps? Scratching your itches most obligingly?"
"If that is all that troubles you, big brother – let me put your worries all at rest. I know where to find our future ally."
Twenty minutes later, the two Saxon brothers and a troop of 30 elite fighters, hand-picked by Horsa himself, made out for a village where a certain, ugly old man had been reported roaming about only two days ago. A man in servant's clothes, but with the finest sword ever beheld in his possession, in a sheath of the finest leather with very peculiar patterns of embroidery. The Camelot dragon-crest being the only thing recognizable among them.
Uther was still biting his nails when Hortensius joined him in his dining room. "Where did the Saxons go?" he demanded to know.
"Searching for my son!" Uther snapped.
"Lost him again?" Hortensius sneered. "It's becoming an unfortunate habit." He yelped when his uncle's fist nailed him to the nearest wall.
"Now listen to me, you whimp" Uther hissed menacingly. "I have to tread careful with the Saxons, for I need them, but I sure do not need you anymore. Now take your crooked, broken carcass out of my sight before I forget that my sister's blood runs in your veins!"
"You need me, uncle. Without me, why should the Gaulish soldiers follow you? I am their Comte!"
"You? Their leader? They do not care if you're alive. Look at you! You're a monster, nothing more. A disfigured cripple. Pathetic!"
"And whose fault is that, eh? You let my mother drown before your very eyes! You only took me because you knew her title and lands would go to me!" Hortensius' whining drove Uther's rage over the hill. He slapped his nephew's face with all his might, before he pushed him to his knees and held him down with both fists in his few remaining strands of hair. "You" Uther snarled. "You and your precious mother, that bitch. If you'd never come to Camelot, Arthur would still be with me. God give my old hands strength to throttle you, once he's back."
"It's my fault now? Your son hates the very sight of you, has done so for more than 20 years, and it is my fault? Magic's fault, his wife's fault, anybody's fault, but never yours! You're a fucking coward, Uther Pendragon, who cannot see the truth in the face!" Hortensius struggled desperately but hopelessly in the cruel grip. His maimed bones and muscles wouldn't obey his heart's desire. Words, words were all he had. And he made them come to him like the daggers he could no longer use. "Arthur hates you, Uther, and everything you are. My mother hated you, and she knew Igraine cursed you with her last breath when she gave birth to that magic-loving son of yours….."
Hortensius screamed with pain when Uther kicked him in the stomach to push him away. He curled up by the wall, but still he wouldn't let go of his only way of retaliation. "Wake up, old fool. You'll not see Camelot again, with or without your shitty son!" Through all his pain and degradation, Hortensius laughed loudly. "They chucked you out, remember, your own son and daughter chucked you out like a mangy dog. Not one of your knights and nobles raised a finger for you, they were too busy crawling into Morgana's arse!"
With an inarticulate roar, Uther raised his blade and came for his nephew, ready to strike down on Hortensius' exposed neck.
"I would reconsider that, dear uncle!" For once fearless in his blinding fury, Hortensius even managed to smile up at the man bent over him with the tip of his sword biting into his nephew's throat. "Comte Uther d'Auvergne has a nice ring to it, I agree. But on my death, the Auvergne goes back to the Gaulish crown. If you're not going back to Camelot – where does my death leave you, Uther?" Hortensius' lips quivered, but he kept the derisive smile on. "Time to provide for your old age, dear uncle. If my Gaulish realm does not shelter you – who will?"
"Who needs scum like you? When Arthur's back we'll go to Camelot together. I'll leave you to your own Gaulish troops to bury you alive for the disgrace you've been to them!" Uther panted. But his sword stayed where it was. He did not push home.
"You know he'd die first, don't you, Uther? Before your son Arthur would allow you back into Camelot, he'd set the place ablaze, with everyone inside."
Uther was panting. His hand at the sword twitched violently. The tip scratched over Hortensius' skin, made a mark, rested – and withdrew.
Hortensius watched his uncle leave, and couldn't restrain his triumph. "We're two of a kind, Uncle Uther" he shouted. "An old bastard and a crippled one, and we will not even part in hell!"
Uther was long gone before Hortensius made it back to his feet. He was hurting and aching all over. The fire inside the ship, almost two decades ago, had maimed him for life, long before the cold water had tried to finish him off.
It was hard to describe, that moment they'd brought in Arthur, unconscious, bruised, but otherwise unchanged. Beautiful, golden, noble Arthur Pendragon. Arthur the hero, Arthur the loved one, Arthur the High King, the victor, the once and future saviour of Albion.
Hortensius had looked down on the very antithesis of his own existence and had felt - nothing. He'd watched Guinivere's execution from his window. He had watched Arthur scream, and struggle. He'd waited for Arthur's pains to soothe his own.
Apparently it didn't quite work like that.
Not Guinivere's agony, not Arthur's struggles had softened the memory of Mathilda dying in the flames of the shipwreck, before the water engulfed her. Nor of the years after that, when Uther had taken over the Auvergne, bit by bit. Degrading his nephew every step of the way. Showing him around if the need arose, shutting him away if it pleased him. Uther had used Hortensius the monster, and thrown him away, like a toy.
And Uther had talked, talked, talked – how he would reclaim Camelot, and all of Albion, and, most of all, his son. How he would avenge his own fate on anyone involved. On the Branguards, on magic, that sorcerer friend of Arthur's, Morgana – anyone. Uther would purge his wayward realm once more with blood and fire, and then the golden times would come back, the glory of the Pendragon rule, he and his son, shoulder by shoulder, side by side…. How Hortensius could have back his crappy dung hole of a realm then, how nobody would ever think of him again…. every single word of Uther's, every event, every day, every minute was carved into Hortensius' mind with a sharp, relentless knife.
There was no pain killer for that kind of injury. However, Uther's face, today – for the first time ever something had achieved to dull the ache. Uther's face today! This was what Hortensius really desired. He'd walk that road until he couldn't. Crawl, if he had to. If he'd ever see Uther's face like this again, if he ever felt again as he had felt today - it would be more than worth it.
Hours later, Hortensius lay on his bed and cherished this day, this emotion, relived it, again and again, until his eyes closed on their own, and he slept. More soundly and more peacefully than he had done in years. He dreamt of his uncles' dreams going all to pieces, on this day, this one, single, marvel of a day.
As he slept and smiled, the Saxons finally caught up with their prey.
In the falling dawn, Armand and the two Pendragons, Arthur and Galla, were marching in the middle of the road, bold as brass. Hengist cried out: "There they are. And on foot. Just look at them!" He spurred his horse to a thundering gallop. "All hail to our future in Albion! Last one there is a sissy!"
In that very moment, Armand and his two companions reached the hilltop, and Arthur thought he heard something. Some vague voice, very far away. He turned round, and looked at the forest clearing in their back. It was tranquil in the bright sunshine of the day. Nobody stirred, not even an animal.
"What is it, Papa?" Galla asked.
"Nothing" Arthur replied. "I thought I heard someone calling."
"Perhaps someone is, Your Majesty" Armand said. "But as I told you when you graciously decided to join my quest – we're going to my realm. My world, my rules!" He shrugged casually and only now Arthur realized that the ugly old scarecrow had lost somewhat of his scoop. He seemed stronger since they'd reached the forest clearing, Arthur now noticed. In fact, Armand's step had a youthful spring to it when they reached the hilltop. His hair seemed fuller. And darker with every step he made.
"Your realm?" Arthur asked uncomfortably.
"It is a presumption of me, I admit it" Morgwyn replied. "There are some crossroads of magic energy since time began, and this is one of them. But, as I've been deprived of my magic, I couldn't find it. The only magic left in this world, King Arthur, was with you all the time. Protected you. Saved you from harm on many a battlefield."
Arthur gave him a questioning look, laid his arm around Galla's shoulders and pulled him closer, away from Armand.
Morgwyn chuckled softly. "Do not fret, Arthur. I'm not to hurt you or your son, My Lady wouldn't approve! And I cannot afford crossing her until my work is done."
"Explain yourself!" Arthur ordered sharply.
"You really never knew, Pendragon? You never suspected, never wondered? How your broken arms could fight as they did?"
"I know Excalibur is magical…." Arthur said heatedly, and Galla looked at him in surprise. A magical sword? His father, the High King, and a magical trick that gave him strength?
"Yes, yes, yes" Armand impatiently cut in, "the Great Dragon's power is in the sword. But in the sheath….."
"What?" Arthur snapped after a look at Galla's face.
"Morgause took magic from this world, to keep you on your throne, Arthur Pendragon" Armand said. With a start, Galla noticed the man's hostile tone and bearing. And also his black mane, his tall shoulders, strong arms and shining black eyes, the set face towering over them, a head taller than Arthur. Galla looked around, baffled. Where had the old man gone? It couldn't be … could it? Was that magic?
"To keep you on your throne, and me in agony" Armand added. "But she left some of it to you, and you never even cared. It is her soul she herself banned into that sword sheath of yours. She died to make you invincible."
Arthur winced, and he swallowed painfully before he answered. "As much as she died to make you irrelevant! Or did I get that wrong? She cast you out."
For a moment Galla was sure Armand was going to kill them both. However, the …. magician? … controlled himself, if barely. "You're right, Arthur. That she did, but, you see, she could have gone all the way. Should have gone all the way. But as easily as she abandoned me, and our cause, it wasn't in her to abandon you, or her precious sister. When she left that piece of herself in this world, she also left me a means to undo all her achievements."
"Which is?" Arthur asked coldly, his arm still firmly holding Galla.
"Why" Armand said, suddenly smiling like a good friend once more, for Galla a strange sight on the at once familiar and unfamiliar face. "Of course it is you, My King. What else could it be?"
"Presume for a second, Armand, I would not cooperate?"
"Oh, but you will. Think of it, My Lord. The Blessed Isle restored to this world. All the magic that once won you battles. That really made you King. Or do you flatter yourself that you did it all alone?"
"No" Arthur said more softly. "I never did."
"And there were people on the Isle when it went away from us" Armand went on, in the perfect courtier's small-talk tone, the sword and sheath swinging loosely behind his back. "Your sister Morgana, for one. That Druid fellow who was on your council. Or that impossible boy you liked so much, Merlin was his name, wasn't it? It was all so long ago, one starts to forget…."
"No" Arthur said again, hoarsely. "I never forgot him. And neither did you."
"If I had forgotten anything" Armand drawled "or anyone, would we be here today?"
"What's in this for you, Armand of Morgwyn? What am I putting in your hands to torment the world with when I help you?"
"Nothing much, Your Majesty. My life. The magic that is my birthright. A chance to join the only woman I ever really loved."
"Oh, please. Spare me the false tears."
"I do. The Isle is my life. I belong there, as you belong to Camelot. Have you forgotten how it feels, how it was, a warlock born of legends at your command, Camelot safe and well protected, Albion at peace….."
"Until you broke that peace, in that so called Holy War of yours!"
"The Christians fathered that war. I only fought for all that's true and good!"
"You fought for yourself, Armand. Like you've always done!"
"I am a High Master of the Blessed Isle. It was my destiny!"
"You dare talk of destiny, you selfish…."
"Papa" Galahad screamed. "Look! There's mother! Mama.. Mama!" He wriggled out of his father's arm before Arthur could react.
"Galla… Galla, come back. There is no one… Galla" Arthur was panicking as he jumped ready to follow the boy. However, he found he could not move. "Let me go, Armand. Damn you, if the boy is harmed…"
"It's not me who's holding you" Armand said calmly. "The illusion isn't yours, that's all. Your son will not be hurt. Let him have his dream for a short while, there's no harm in that."
Still fighting to move, Arthur screamed with anger and frustration. "What on earth is happening?"
Armand's voice rose to drone out a gust of strong wind that had arrived from nowhere. The sunlight was gone, so were the forest and the clearing. All Arthur could see from the hilltop was a wasteland of rocks and desert, with Galla apparently floating in midair, smiling and waving, enraptured by something – or someone – only he could see. "The gates between the worlds are opening, Arthur. It is Beltane night. The only time the magic of sword and sheath can reach out to the Isle that vanished!" The wind almost swallowed his words. It tangled his black hair, almost blew Arthur off his feet, tore at their clothes.
"What say you, Pendragon? Are you going to help me? I cannot use the sword and sheath, they're yours, and yours alone!"
Arthur hesitated. The "yes" was already on his lips, but he was too scared to say it. In his stomach something fluttered, willing to be let out. Warm memories of friendship and security, yes. But other memories, too. Of tumbling walls, destroyed castles, dead men, and vain fights against an invincible enemy, made all-powerful by magic, laughing, reckless, bringing fire and destruction…. "For the Gods' sake, Armand, don't make me regret this….."
"What is there to regret? The world that was mine was yours for the taking, too. What made you High King in your father's place? Was it some nice singing in the churche's aisle? Some hypocrites sucking up to you? Some bishops conspiring behind your back? It was me, Arthur Pendragon, me, all along. Had you been true to me, and not betrayed me, no power in this 'verse could have stood against us!"
Still, Arthur was silent in the roaring storm.
"Damn it, Pendragon, I must know now! You left me for some whining Christian fools, you betrayed my birthright, and your own. And that of your son. The Isle's magic could make him whole. Merlin's magic could make him the son you always wanted! What say you?"
"Yes!" Arthur shouted. "Yes, I will help you!"
Armand smiled contentedly. The sun shone warmly on their faces. The birds sang. The forest was serene and peaceful. Galla was standing not a step away, still fascinated by a sight that was for him, and no one else. He seemed to be talking to someone, happily.
"You bastard" Arthur said helplessly.
"Nothing of the kind, My Lord" was Armand's reply. "It will be like that, today, at midnight. I just wanted to give you a taste of what's in store for you. So that, later on, you'll not accuse me of being a vicious, untrustworthy liar, undeserving of your trust and aid."
"You are all that!"
"It's all true what I said. I need your help when the gates open, and I can bring everything back we both once had. There's no falsehood."
"You've never really lied, not in the literal sense of the word, and yet you were the falsest friend a man can have! Where does your sudden magic come from when you need the Isle to get it back?"
"As I already mentioned to you before, we're at a crossroad of….."
"Magic energy, yeah, great, magic is gone, that you also said!"
"Except for that in your sword and sheath, as My Lord might choose to remember. You're close, this is a crossroad between the magic of two worlds, I'm a High Master - for a few tricks of a second rate conjurer, that's enough. But without you, it won't be of any use to me tonight. Do I have your word?"
"I've already said yes" Arthur retorted, relieved against his will. "I will not go behind my promise. What do I have to do tonight?"
"I'll tell you when the time comes. It isn't much, and I promise, you'll not be harmed by it. The sword and sheath could not harm you, even if I wanted them to." Unceremoniously, Armand dropped to the ground, cross-legged, looking comfy and relaxed. "Perhaps, to pass the time, King Arthur, would you like me to tell you something about your father's doings in Gaul?"