Guardians of Albion
Night of Battle
In the light of the Crystal Cave, the Red Knight removed his helm. His hair and close-trimmed beard were also red, his eyes a piercing blue. He bowed to the Phantom Stranger. "Lord." He said, then to the White Lady "My Lady Nimue."
"Sir Gawain." She acknowledged. "I have here your blade, Sir Knight."
He approached her and took a knee. She presented the great sword to him and he took it, bowing his head. "Bear it in honour and good fortune!" Nimue told him.
He examined the hilt and the unique sheath. "Excalibur?" He asked. "Is this not my uncles' blade?"
"The sword belongs to Merlin." The Stranger told him. "Arthur bore it in his turn, but now it is yours to wield."
Gawain looked up at Nimue. "Have you naught else for me, Lady?" He asked softly.
She smiled. "Rise." She told him, and when he had done so, she took a silken scarf from round her neck and tied it round his left arm, close to his heart. "You have my favour, Gawain, as you always have." She said.
"Now there's lovely!" Merlin was suddenly there, grinning at them all. "Greetings to you all and blessed be! Indeed it's been long and long since we were last together." His face turned stern.
"But as always, we meet when things hang in the balance!" He said. "The Dragons stir, dark things move, the Walkers are abroad and my Wakening comes soon. But not yet, and until then, you must hold as best you may."
"Not alone." The Stranger said. "Much has changed since we were last in this Mortal Realm. Men are no longer what they were. They have fewer fears. Their knowledge is different from ours, but it is very great. They possess powerful weapons, and dour-handed soldiers to wield them."
"Not only that," Nimue noted, "but some among them surpass even the heroes of old in power, strength and cunning!"
"They will need every scrap of it!" Merlin reminded them. "But for now, you each have your tasks. Lord Mithrandir, you have a demigod to summon. Lady Nimue, a Champion to reforge. For you, Sir Gawain, a night of battle awaits!"
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Moran had ordered everyone to rest. There'd be, he knew, little if any sleep tonight. But all his people were good soldiers, and like all good soldiers, they held by the code: 'Never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lie down. If you can lie down, go to sleep.' Except the Commando, of course, who didn't sleep and who would spend the day monitoring feeds.
Morans' enhanced physiology allowed him to sleep at will. A necessary ability since his accelerated metabolism would otherwise burn calories even while sitting still. But his heightened senses made him hard to creep up on, even when asleep. So he was surprised when he woke to see a figure looming over him. A figure he didn't recognise. A figure who should not have been able to evade the mansions' security, much less sneak into his room unnoticed.
Tall, slender, cloaked in grey with a grey slouch hat that shaded his eyes. A thin strong face with a firm mouth. Before Moran could react, the figure spoke, odd, Celtic-sounding syllables that flowed into Morans' mind and sent him back into sleep, and more than sleep.
He floated in a space lit by a white, sourceless light. He could sense movement around him, beings moving with purpose, ignoring him. Except one, which hung before him. A formless, ever-changing violet gas or vapour. He was unsurprised when it spoke. English, but with an odd accent and spoken as if by one not wholly familiar with the language.
"At final! I had been almost exhausted of hope, Friend Michael!"
"S'ngac?" Moran responded. "This isn't the Dreamlands!"
"Truth." S'ngac replied. "I cannot reach into Material Space without a garment. But I recognised your extelligence in Human Created Space and tried to instruct it there, but that space is constrained by human thought and the ideation was distorted. But the Kree construct has sent you here, as he promised."
"What…?" Moran began, but S'ngac swirled violently, causing him to stop.
"Our moments are with limit, Friend Michael, attend closely! I am the extelligence of S'ngac of the Qys. My intelligence remains in Umru in Waiting Space, and has since our craft crashed on your world. One of our garments was damaged so that the Change was incomplete and we were no longer able to reach our wardrobe. We were thus disabled to prevent the Twisted One making use of our arts to create a garment linked to your first self."
"Gargunza!" Moran snarled. "That bloody little gnome was too fucking clever for anybodys' good!"
"Perhaps, Friend Michael, but he did find a way to recover you. He also created a second garment, other from the first, which waits still in Under Space. This enabled a bargain with Messenger of the Kree. He has activated that part of your brain which will permit you to use the Change-Word and summon this other garment whenever you wish, but only for the space of one of your hours. In return you have been given a device which, attached to a functional but non-person form, will allow our intelligence to return to Material space and obtain a garment of our own which will allow us to return home."
"A functional but non-person form?" Moran asked.
"It must be able to speak, but have no mind of its' own to displace or traumatise. Such a thing you can build?" S'ngac replied.
"I think so." Moran replied.
"Good." S'ngac said. "You must leave now, Friend Michael, before damage is made to your garment. We shall see you soon."
Morans' internal alarm woke him in the late afternoon.
"That," he said to himself, "was one weird dream!" A seasoned visitor to the Dreamlands, he had met S'ngac the Violet Gas many times before and engaged in strange discussions about the nature of Time, Space and identity. But this had been less elliptical, less philosophical, more concrete, if no less peculiar!
Then he saw the small, silver, utterly alien device on the bedside table.
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Logan had come here to die. Not before time, either! He often thought. The pain was constant now, which was actually an improvement. Constant pain he could keep at bay, it had been the sudden spasms that made it hard. The sores on the backs of his hands, where his claws came through, wept all the time, and he had to change the dressings several times a day because they stank.
"It's the adamantium, Logan." Spectres' in-house physician, Dr Stephen Strange, had told him. "It's a heavy metal and it's toxic, Your healing factor has been keeping it at bay for years, but you're starting to lose the battle. The concentrations in your system are through the roof!"
"Guess it had to happen." Logan allowed. "How long have I got?"
Strange shrugged. "We still don't fully understand your healing and immune system, so I only have ballpark figures. We can do a lot of intensive and invasive therapy -transfusions, chemo, even surgical removal of some bones and replacing them with ceramics. You'd be pretty much in a hospital bed all the time, very sick and you'd probably last two years. Or we could just do regular blood filtration and dose you up with painkillers – that'd get you maybe eighteen months. If we do nothing, you have maybe a year and it's going to be a painful one!
"The ideal solution would be to get rid of the adamantium. Ten years ago, with Bruce and Tony to help, I could've done that. I could do it now, but your healing factor is so worn down you wouldn't survive the procedure.
"It's your call, Logan. I'll do whatever I can to help, but in the end it's up to you."
So Logan had done what he always did – gone looking for somewhere to be alone. Just him and the wild spaces. But people knew him now. If he went back to Canada, or Louisiana, they'd look for him there, and find him. They were his friends and they cared about him and he didn't need that, not now.
He went back to the swamp anyway, and talked to the Swamp Thing, and the Swamp Thing called something else. Something big and bright that looked like a Chinese dragon. It looked at Logan with wise green eyes and said it knew somewhere. It said its name was Kukulkan, it called him 'cousin' and invited him to climb on its back. He did and it brought him here, to the lake and the forest under the ruined castle, where a hut stood. Old, but still sturdy, with rough furniture inside, furniture too big for a normal man.
"What is this place?" Logan had asked.
"A fragment of a dream." Kukulkan said. "Real enough, for those with eyes to see, but not to be found without them."
There were fish in the lake, rabbits and deer in the forest. When he was too ill to hunt, small creatures with bulging eyes and large ears brought him bread and broth. But perhaps that was just delirium, like the walking trees who brought herbs from the forest and told long tales in deep, musical voices.
Delirium, like now as the tall, blonde, slender woman in white rose out of the centre of the lake and walked across the water toward him. Soft white light glowed round her, but she cast no shadow. She said nothing, but held out a hand, which he took and was suddenly without pain.
Then the world swirled away and they stood before a massive castle. The windows were thin and barred, but light shone from within them. Figures in white armour patrolled the ramparts and guarded the great portcullis, but the drawbridge was open and she led him across.
"This looks like a prison." He said.
Her voice was soft and low. "It is, after a fashion. This is the fortress of Mandos, where the spirits of Fae slain in battle or through sorrow must come to recollect. Each ones' sentence lasts only as long as they wish it to. Until they have made peace with their past."
"I'm no Fae." Logan pointed out.
"Perhaps not." She replied. "But that it not why we are here."
The guards bowed, the portcullis was raised, the gates opened and they passed into the Keep. They passed through rooms and halls hung with tapestries depicting many scenes, some of which Logan recognised. Finally they came to a great hall, with three great hearths in each wall, in which bright fires burned. There were more tapestries, and crystal lamps, and long tables and benches, all empty except for the high seat at the end. A massive chair carved of black wood in which sat a giant figure wearing black robes and a steel crown. His face was alien, with a long jaw and a broad brow and almond-shaped eyes that were dark and brooding, but not hostile. His hair was long and silver. He looked at the woman and inclined his head.
"My Lady Nimue." His voice was also soft, yet clear. "The Messengers of the Kree are honoured here, whatever others of my kin might say. What seek you here?"
"Lord Namo." Nimue replied. "I come with a task for Lord Feanor. One only he might undertake. Does he yet remain here?"
Namo nodded. "He can find no peace, I fear it is not in his nature. Yet he will welcome a task – in making he finds what little joy he can. Is this he of whom the Mentor spoke, the Undying Mortal?"
"Not yet." Nimue said. "But it is time for him to Become."
"A hard fate." Namo said. "Such as he are not made for immortality. Are you ready for what must come, Child of Dust?"
"Bub, I already lived three-four times as long as a man should." Logan said. "I've seen friends and lovers and even my kids get old and die while I went on. If I've got to die, I'm ready, but if there's an alternative, I'll take it!"
Nimue had never seen Namo smile before and was taken with the warmth and joy of it.
"The Sons of Men were ever thus!" He said. "Even in the Dawn of Time, your forefathers sought the path that offered most challenge in preference to acceptance. Always seeking to change either yourselves or the world. It has made you both great and terrible. They will surpass us all, Nimue!"
"Such is our hope." Nimue answered.
"So it is written." Namo replied. "Seek Feanor out in his forge, and do not mind his manners!"
Deep in the dungeons, Feanors' forge was a combination of smithy, library, laboratory and hospital. A figure sat at a desk, poring over a large tome.
"Lord Feanor?" Nimue said.
He looked up. He had the same alien features as Namo, but was no giant. As he jumped impatiently to his feet, Logan could see he was slender, with the long muscles of a dancer and perhaps seven feet tall. His hair was raven dark and his eyes golden-yellow with a ferocious gaze – he radiated power and energy. He wore clothes of worn and patched leather. His voice was clear and melodious, despite the brusqueness of his tone.
"The White Lady!" He snapped. "What trivia do the Kree demand of me this time?" Then his hot gaze fell on Logan.
"By Aules' Hammer!" He exclaimed. "What foolish apprentices' work is this! Come!" He gestured imperiously and Logan stepped forward despite himself. Feanor walked round him, muttering to himself, then turned to Nimue.
"You wish me to amend him?"
"If you can, Lord Feanor." She answered.
"Pah!" He snorted. He looked at Logan again. "Your extraordinary code saved you, mortal, when the work was done, but it is failing you now. There was skill in the work, but insufficient knowledge. The work of Man, not Dwarf or Fae. Men learn too slow and act too quick, but their work is not beyond amendment. Telchars' Metal is strong, and not easy to forge. The work was done well, but with the wrong material. Had you been a Dwarf, it would not have mattered. Had you been Fae, your body would have rejected the metal. But you are a Man, albeit no common Man, and the metal has poisoned you. I shall remove it, and that without harm to you!"
"There is more to do than remove the metal…" Nimue began, but Feanor gestured impatiently.
"I know the prophecy, Messenger! I have what is needed by me. But now, we must begin!"
He turned and took something from his desk. "Look here!" He said, and thrust it in front of Logans' face. A large gem, clear green, glowing with an inner light. Logan stared for a moment, then fell into that light.
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The Hooded Man fired arrows as fast as the Cat could shoot, and with equal, lethal accuracy. Bullet and arrow alike dropped Hellhounds in their tracks, and the initial charge was quickly broken. The animals milled around, torn between the urge to kill and the fear of death. Then the Cat ran out of ammo. He ejected the clip and slapped a new one in in seconds, but too many seconds and one of the beasts was on him, all heavy muscle and oily fur, yellow fangs and breath that stank of blood and sulphur. He jammed a forearm into the things mouth, relying on the metal brace on his arm to defeat the fangs. With his other arm, he encircled the brute's head, gripped the fur, then twisted with all the force of both arms, wrenching the head round until the neck gave with a sickening crunch and the hound went limp. He shoved it off him, got to his feet and recovered his gun.
The pack had had enough, and the remaining half-dozen animals were making off down a side street. The Cat spoke into his commlink. "Tango Section. Six headed your way."
"Roger Echo Three, we see them."
Moments later, there was a rattle of small arms fire, a cacophony of howls and whines, then silence.
The Hooded Man turned to the Cat. "I had thought you lost." He said. "Your strength is great!"
The Cat nodded. "When I need it to be. I pay for it later though, when I switch the implant off! Those brutes go down easier than I thought they would!"
"I too, am surprised by the efficacy of your weapons." The Hooded Man noted. "My vessel knows little of such things, save what he sees on your mumming machines, and he doubts the veracity of that. Yet even so, it has as much to do with the wielder as the weapon. In the old times, the soldiers had their spears and swords and bows, but were too fear-stricken to use them. They would flee instead and the hounds would chase them down. The beasts are unaccustomed to humans who stand and fight!"
"I can see that." The Cat allowed. "Then again, they're off their ground, aren't they? Hard, wide streets, bright lights. We can see 'em coming. Back in the day, in a pitch-black forest with a bunch of those buggers after me, I'd be needing clean underwear as well!"
His radio crackled. "Echo Three, hostiles two streets west, backup needed."
"On our way!" The Cat said. "Going to be a fucking busy night, mate!"
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Spitfire danced among the Vampires like a lethal dervish. The Undead were fast and strong, but not quite a match for her Shobogan physiology. The long knives she was using stabbed and cut and parried, piercing hearts and severing heads, while her powerful kicks sent attackers flying.
The Commando was less graceful, but no less effective. "Pierce the hearts or sever the heads." Herne had advised. But the powerful mech, who easily outmatched his opponents, had found that crushing the heads or ripping the hearts out was just as effective – if messier.
The last of them was down. Spitfire considered the carnage.
"Don't do subtle, do you?" She remarked.
"I'm an eight-foot-tall robot." He pointed out. "I could do subtle, but I'd look very silly doing it!"
"So who's to see?" She asked.
For answer, he pointed to the security camera mounted on the nearby lamp-post. "I have to consider how I'm going to look on the debriefing playback." He said. "We don't want some walrus-moustached Brigadier saying they didn't pay out however many million for a tin-plated ballet dancer!"
She giggled, then sniffed the air. "Do you smell something? Something really rank?"
"I do." The Commando said. "The owner of the stench has just rounded that corner!"
The thing was some ten feet tall, with short, thick legs ending in large, three-toed feet and long muscular arms ending in large, three-fingered hands with long, claw-like nails. A short, thick neck was set horizontally in the upper chest rather than vertically atop the shoulders, which humped behind and above the head. The head itself had a low forehead, a thick, broad nose, deep-set red eyes and a too-wide mouth from which boar-like tusks protruded. The chest was broad and muscular, but gave way to a corpulent, bulging belly. A rough hide belt was tied round the waist, supporting a filthy kilt-like garment, a bloodstained sack and a crude sheath in which rested a large knife. The arms, legs and head were covered with matted hair, but the chest and belly showed exposed, greyish-blue skin. A carrion stench hung around it.
"I presume this to be a Troll." The Commando said. "Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all."
The Troll paused for a second, then suddenly burst into a surprisingly fast charge at Spitfire. Not quite fast enough, however, as she jumped aside, shouting "This one's yours, Rusty!"
The Troll spun towards her again, ignoring the Commando. I presume because I'm not edible. He thought, then moved in a blur, landing a thundering punch in the Trolls' side. The brute gave an awful howl and spun again to confront this new menace, anger and puzzlement in its' eyes.
Is it possible that this creature has never been hurt before? The Commando wondered. Then the Troll launched a swipe at him with one hand. The impact was enough to stagger the mech and send him back a step or two, but the effect on the Troll was remarkable. It howled again and stared stupidly at its hand. One of the claw-nails had been completely ripped away and black blood dripped from the wound. The Commando looked down at himself, the combat top had been slashed across the chest.
"Another one gone!" He remarked. "This is really becoming tedious!"
Then the Troll was on him, wrapping its' long arms round him and squeezing. If the Commando had been made of flesh and blood, he would have been crushed, or at least asphyxiated by the stink of the beast. As it was, the Trolls' unusual anatomy was its undoing. Two feet taller than its opponent, the odd positioning of its head and neck placed them eye to eye. The Commando leaned back, then butted the Troll in the face. The nose was turned to a bloody pulp, one of the tusks was shattered and the Commando was able to break the stunned creatures' grip and push it away.
For reasons best known to themselves, the builders of the Steel Commando had decided to program him with every martial arts technique known to man. Before, he had never had occasion to employ them, but now, faced with an enemy of greater size and possibly equal strength, it was time to experiment. A battery of punches and kicks, delivered with greater speed, power and precision than any human could have achieved, left the Troll a bloody, broken corpse in less than a minute.
"Shit!" Spitfire observed. "Seems there is a use for an eight-foot metal ballet dancer! That was bloody awesome, mate!"
"I've never had a reason to use those techniques before." The Commando said. "They do seem quite useful, in the right circumstances."
"Why didn't it try to use the knife?" She wondered. "Oh! Herne said something about a geas. That's a kind of curse or enchantment that puts rules on you. Maybe they can only use the knife to gut the bodies after they kill them?"
"You have been looking things up!" The Commando observed. "It may also be some primitive code of honour, only to kill with bare hands. Clearly the beasts have a certain level of intelligence – enough to wear clothing of a sort and use tools.
"Points to ponder another time. We should move on, I think. The night is still young."
"True." She replied. "And dates with you are such fun!"
"Shut up." He told her.
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The Red Knight had not revealed himself to the soldiers or the heroes fighting here. It hadn't been necessary, the foes they had faced thus far had been little threat to them. Their forefathers would have been unmanned by generations-long fear, and but few could have summoned the will to fight. But they had lived in tiny islands of dim light amid the dark woods, and their foes had too often been unseen until they struck. These brightly-lit avenues made night almost day and left the Night Terrors few places to hide. That alone gave the soldiers an advantage, while their strange but effective weapons enabled them to strike Hellhounds and even Trolls down from a distance. Gawain was no fool, and from his Anchors' mind he at least partially understood the blending of smithcraft and alchemy that allowed the soldiers to hurl their leaden projectiles with such force and accuracy. Such progress from the bows and spears he remembered!
Then he felt something. A sensation he had not experienced in centuries, but one horribly familiar. A glow of red light sprang up and figures emerged from it. Man-sized figures, running on clawed feet. Fleshless triangular heads, eyeless but with gaping nostrils and mouths filled with fangs. Muscular arms that ended, not in hands, but in three-foot long, curved blades of steel-hard bone. Niskaru Bloodhunters, Bane of the Fae and most dread of the Night Terrors.
The soldiers did not blench. They stood their ground and raked this new foe with their weapons even as the Niskaru charged. But these terrors did not go down so easily as Hellhounds, Vampires or even Trolls, nor did the deaths of any of their number deter them. Nevertheless, fully five of the pack of thirteen had gone down before they reached their targets. But the soldiers still fought, with steel blades mounted on the ends of their weapons.
Brave, but doomed, even though they outnumbered the Niskaru, they could not match them in close combat. Gawain drew Excalibur, and the black blade bellowed its challenge. He bounded forward, shouting himself: "I am for you, warriors of Albion!"
The Niskaru knew the voice of Excalibur, the blade had claimed hundreds of their kin. In fear and wrath, they turned from their human victims and charged down on Gawain. Excalibur growled as it sliced through demon flesh, crushed demon bone. The curved blades slashed at the Red Knight, but the enchanted sheath warded him from harm, and his red, Dwarf-forged armour was proof against almost any attack. Then the red Ring awoke -Narya, Ring of Fire – flames blazed around Gawain, searing the flesh of foes, but healing the wounds and inspiring the spirits of allies. The soldiers rallied to him, attacking the Niskaru in groups of three or five. Without eyes, working only on scent and sound and with their eldritch senses crippled by the bright light, the Niskaru fought with all the fury they could, but it wasn't enough, and the last of them soon went down under Excaliburs' edge.
A soldier stepped up to Gawain, saluting him with hand raised to helmet.
"Thanks for your assistance, Sir!" He said. "Lieutenant Banks, 5th Company Grenadier Guards!"
"I am the Red Knight." Gawain told him, bowing. "More than that I may not say. Your men are valiant!"
"They're good lads." Banks replied. "But this isn't what we're used to, I'll admit!"
The red light sprang up again, heralding another pack. Banks turned and barked an order. While the Niskaru were still orienting themselves, two of the soldiers hurled small objects into the midst of the pack, then dropped prone with the others. There was a tremendous explosion that staggered Gawain. When the smoke and flame had cleared, all that remained of a pack of thirteen Niskaru was a tangled mess of burned and shredded flesh.
Banks got to his feet. "Won't catch us napping again!" He stated. "Didn't they know Grenadiers have grenades?"
"They would know no more than I what a grenade might be!" The Red Knight said. "But I must bid you farewell, Lieutenant. I am needed elsewhere!"
"Us too!" Banks saluted again. "Thanks again, and good luck!"
"Who the fuck was that?" One of the men asked nobody in particular.
"One of the funny lot." The sergeant told him. "Just be thankful they're on our side and don't ask any bloody daft questions, sunshine!"
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Candour compels us to admit that Union Jack and Herne the Hunter had been having, up until now, a whale of a time! Moran was a match for virtually anything short of a Troll, and in his giant stag-like form, Herne had little difficulty with Trolls. The only thing missing had been conversation. Moran had learned that Herne could speak in this form, but only with great difficulty and little clarity, usually confining himself to single, short words.
But that was before the street cracked open in front of them and something emerged!
A mass of moving darkness, but with a more solid form inside. Jet-black, man-shaped, but at least four metres tall. It carried a multi-thonged whip in one hand, the thongs of which were aflame. In the other was a long sword, down the blade of which fire also ran.
"Bal-rog!" Herne shouted, and the creature looked at him.
"Herne?" It said in a voice that crackled like fire. Then it said something else. Strange, twisting words in a language Moran couldn't understand. Herne bellowed, then his form shrank and dwindled and he was in his human shape again. The Balrog advanced on him, but Moran was already moving.
The thing was fast – faster than it looked – but not quite fast enough, and Moran evaded the sword-cut to get inside its guard. He was met with a solid kick to the chest that sent him flying several metres away. He felt a couple of ribs go, and the breath was knocked out of him.
"You next." The Balrog promised, as it turned to Herne again.
But Herne was chanting, gesturing. Where the Balrog had broken the pavement, the earth underneath heaved and writhed as thick, gnarled roots grew out of it at terrible speed. They wrapped themselves around the Balrog, pulling it back. Then pulses of green light -the green of spring leaves - began to travel along the roots, discharging into the Balrog where they touched it, causing it to twitch and snarl as if being tormented with electric shocks.
For a moment it seemed as if Herne might win, but then the Balrog planted its' feet and heaved, snapping the roots that held it's arms and legs. Turning, it used its flaming sword to sever the main stem.
"Bravely done, old one!" It said, moving toward Herne, who had gone to one knee, apparently exhausted. "But you are too far from the forest. There you would have had the mastery, but here among stone, I am the greater!"
Moran was on his feet. He was not strong enough, he knew. He thought of his strange dream, of the device that now rested in secure storage at HQ. It was all true, or none of it was.
"Kimota." He said.
The concussion staggered the Balrog and the light blinded it. Then a tall, white figure was stalking toward it. It struck out with its' sword. The white figure raised a slender arm to block, and the flaming blade shattered into fragments. The Balrog lashed out with its whip. The white figure caught the thongs and wrenched the weapon from the Balrogs' hand. Then in a blur of speed it wrapped the whip around the Balrogs' neck and shot vertically upward, pulling the Balrog off the ground to hang by its own weapon. The Balrog struggled violently, intensely, but to no avail. It grew weaker, the struggles became quivers and convulsions until finally it hung limp. The white figure dropped it into the crater it had emerged from, then came over to Herne.
It stood perhaps eight feet tall, and was skeletally thin, with elongated torso and limbs. It wore a simple, one-piece white garment, the high boots were also white. The head was hairless, and covered with white skin. It had deep-socketed dark eyes, a small, upturned nose and a thin, lipless mouth.
"Moran?" Herne asked.
"Not entirely." The voice was a surprisingly musical tenor. "But enough so that you may trust me. Are you well?"
"I am greatly weary." Herne allowed. "Because of the Balrogs' counter-spell, I cannot resume my natural form before sunset tomorrow, so I will be of no further use tonight."
"You have done more than enough." The other told him. "Return to the truck and rest. I must make the best use of the hour that I have. I will meet you there as Moran."
Then he was gone, leaving only the wind of his passing.
Dawn was little more than an hour away, but during that time, a new element entered the fray. The soldiers and the rest of Excalibur never saw or felt it, and neither did the Red Knight. But others, innocents facing attack, or the invasion of their homes, spoke of a wind that swept through their attackers and past them, and left carnage in its wake.
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The Lady Morgian stepped back from her crystal and almost fell. To her relief, she felt Mordreds' mighty arms around her. He carried her to a couch, and brought her a cup of a clear cordial, which she drank.
"We, I, failed." She told him. "They were prepared."
"How so?" He said. "They were ever prepared before, but always defeated."
"Aye, Brother," she replied, "prepared with weapons, but unmanned by fear and darkness! But they have banished the darkness and unlearned their fear. The soldiers fought magnificently, Mordred! True, their weapons are more fell than of old, but also the men who wield them do not blanch before monsters or the Undead. Even Niskaru could not put them to flight!"
"You could summon Niskaru?" Mordred asked.
"But two packs." She admitted. "And that at great cost. The power is there, Mordred, and it is growing, but much of it lies still beyond my reach."
He shook his head. "You have overdone yourself, Sister, it was not wise."
"I was afraid." She said. "Mordred, the Red Knight is abroad! He was in the city tonight, and he bears your fathers' sword!"
Mordreds' smile was grim. "Then I shall take it from him!" He said. "My kinsman shall learn not to put hand to what is mine by right!"
"You shall wait!" She commanded. "Wait until I have strength enough to aid you. Remember, Mordred, Gawains' might in arms is second only to Launcelots', and now he wields a Ring of Power.
"But now I must rest. Do you keep watch during the day, and we will take counsel tonight."