Summary
Dodd forces Mordred into a deadly test of fealty.
Chapter 78 The Hand of Destiny
Killian's consciousness surged once again within Dodd as he approached Mordred's alcove, forcing him to halt mid-stride. Pain lanced through his temples as another mind fought for control, clouding his vision momentarily. Their shared thirst for vengeance upon Pendragon fueled Killian's attempt to surface, but Dodd pushed back with an angry whispered spell.
"My turn," he muttered through clenched teeth, regaining dominance as the golden heat in his eyes subsided.
His boots struck the uneven stone as he resumed his path through the winding passages. Along jagged limestone walls, water traced glistening trails that captured the sparse torchlight. Pale fungal growths marked familiar routes from their perch in the dampest corners, luminescent in the surrounding gloom. Earth and ancient decay flavored the stale, mineral-laden air coating his tongue—a taste only food and ale could overwhelm.
Dodd let his footfalls ring through the tunnels, ensuring Mordred would hear the unmistakable signal of his imminent arrival. The boy's resolve had faltered during their latest sessions of royal retribution, retreating into shadows, his features often ashen with fear. Perhaps partnering with one so young had been unwise, yet the boy possessed magical prowess, though limited to druid spells and the few they had taught him since then.
The sound of movement interrupted Dodd's contemplation. Mordred emerged from his alcove, stepping directly into the tunnel, his expression tense with defiance, his thin frame rigid. "It's time," he declared.
The corner of Dodd's mouth curled upward as he nodded, surprised at Mordred's attempt at readiness. He hummed, then pivoted, heading for Pendragon's alcove, the boy's footsteps falling out of rhythm with his own.
Mordred's feigned resolve amused him—like watching a child don ill-fitting armor, pretending at courage while fear leaked from every seam. With three to four sessions of their righteous judgment throughout each day, he'd begun to question if so many were necessary – even suggesting they might savor greater gratification by extending the intervals between torments. Perhaps his argument contained a kernel of logic, but to them, it seemed more a means to ease his conscience and trepidation than any genuine desire to enhance their pleasure through anticipation.
A few more turns brought them to Pendragon's holding niche, torchlight dimming as they descended deeper into the network of caves. The king was already struggling to stand—much as he had done since what Dodd savored as his divine reckoning began—though the effort proceeded at a considerably slower pace than previous days. Dodd deftly unlocked the cage with a wave of his hand, his whispered spell culminating in a cool flash of gold across his eyes. The lock clicked open before they reached it.
King Arthur appeared exceptionally weary, dark rings circling unfocused blue eyes, his posture stripped of its former defiance, a faint tremor evident as he steadied himself on an iron bar. Once-golden hair lay disheveled and dull against his brow, matted with beads of sweat glistening along his hairline. A brief, suppressed cough shook his frame before he mastered it, though the rasp in his breathing remained. Despite his deterioration, Pendragon managed to glare at them, though his resistance to being handled had noticeably diminished.
Mordred stepped inside the cage and clasped the king's arm, guiding him to the stone altar – Pendragon's death bed. Ancient runes Dodd had etched into its surface had darkened from days of absorbing the king's blood and sweat.
As they approached, Arthur's defiant eyes flicked briefly toward the braided copper and gold circlet laid nearby, a momentary flash of resignation crossing his features. Dodd's smile widened at Pendragon's reaction to their prized creation. The Reacher's opal extracted memories like teeth from gums, the Soul Chest's jet manifested suffering in flesh, and the Destiny Stone's tourmaline forced him to experience every moment of torment firsthand—all working in cruel harmony.
For five endless days, they'd forced the once-mighty king to relive the agonizing deaths of his and Uther's countless victims. Burned, drowned, beheaded—Pendragon had endured them. Yet his spirit remained frustratingly intact as day six began, a resilience that both impressed and infuriated Dodd. It was only when the circlet touched Arthur's brow and the suffering began anew that his resolve would crumble—those precious moments of weakness providing Dodd with pleasure—though fleeting, never quite enough to sate his hunger for vengeance.
With Mordred's aid, Pendragon reclined on the cold surface. A grimace crossed his face as his back—still raw and bloodied from previous sessions—met the unforgiving stone. Mordred stilled, flinching at the king's anguish, his gaze darting away as if seeking escape from what his hands helped create.
"Bind him," Dodd commanded, his tone sharpening.
Mordred shot him a glance, then his expression turned inward for a moment. Arms rising and outstretched, he invoked, "Stáncostunga béo gefæstnod" as his eyes filled with magic.
Amber light seeped into the ancient rock slab, the limestone softening, lengthening, and molding around Pendragon's wrists and ankles, hardening almost instantly when stone rejoined with stone. Again, the king winced, a barely audible hiss escaping through clenched teeth as fresh pressure aggravated old wounds, sending a rush of satisfaction through Dodd.
Despite this, a glimmer of respect flickered within him as he studied Pendragon, noting the flush across the king's cheeks. "You've done remarkably well, King Arthur," he said, circling the altar like a collector admiring a rare acquisition. "Your endurance. Your defiance… Your screams. Refreshing each time."
Pendragon's gaze drifted to him, revulsion in his eyes, jaw muscles tightening beneath a thickening beard. Contempt passed across his features before he looked away, fixing his gaze on the ceiling once more—the only rebellion left to him. A throaty chuckle spilled from Dodd's lips, the king's disdain fueling his cruel delight.
"Do you know how long you've been here? Six days, your highness, yet your defiant countenance persists." He drew a breath, eyes roaming Pendragon's tattered and foul attire. "Perhaps we should allow a sovereign some decency, Mordred, hm? Fresh tunic and trousers, though in the end, it won't matter."
His mocking words earned Pendragon's contain fury, their wills clashing in silent combat as they glared at each other. Dodd hardened his expression. He would break Arthur, no matter how long it took.
"Mordred, retrieve the circlet and place it upon the king's head." Pendragon didn't recoil, only resumed his vigil of the stalagmites above.
Mordred stepped to the table against the wall and lifted the circlet, its gemstones glinting in the candlelight. Returning to the altar, he carefully positioned the device atop Pendragon's head, ensuring the opal rested centered on his brow. Arthur ground his teeth, lips pressing into a terse line as they prepared the engine of his torment.
Dodd watched Mordred's hesitant movements, seeing in them a chance to test the limits of the boy's loyalty. "Perform the spell," he commanded, voice edged with challenge.
Mordred froze mid-motion, his fingers still lingering near the circlet.
So, Dodd thought, a contest of nerve and obedience. "Why else have we been training you, Mordred? Now's the time to gauge your… talent." His words carried a frigid weight, his lips thinning to a merciless slash—the gauntlet thrown. Now pick it up, boy.
Mordred swallowed thickly, taking half a step back from the altar. "I—I'm not sure I can invoke the spell properly. It's… it's very complicated."
"Do it, Mordred; and don't lie to me again."
"I—I…" he stammered, his hands trembling slightly, eyes wide and glassy. "I mean, which…?"
"Which death for our king?" Dodd's voice cut like winter frost. "Take your pick."
The boy hesitates—a liability, as Killian would say. They'd have to reevaluate how much they could trust Mordred, his days, perhaps, even proving shorter than Arthur's. Dodd circled the stone slab, each purposeful step toward Mordred an unspoken threat. The boy timidly raised a hand above Pendragon's head just as Dodd towered beside him.
"Ic ábede þone éarendel–" Mordred began, then lowered his arm. "I can't remember the words. I'm not ready. I've–tried…"
Unlike Killian's approach of physical intimidation, Dodd merely leaned closer, his eyes narrowing to slits as they fixed on Mordred. The air between them seemed to chill, causing the boy's shoulders to hunch instinctively.
"You will do this. Now begin again and finish the incantation."
"Don't listen to him, Mordred," Pendragon intervened, his voice a raw whisper, yet carried unexpected authority. "You don't have to do this. There's still a choice."
Dodd froze at the king's unanticipated appeal, his jaw tightening as he gestured Mordred to step aside with a demanding flick of his wrist. Glare seizing Pendragon as he glided closer, Dodd struck the king across the face, the sound cracking through the chamber. Mordred gasped behind him. "You have no voice here," he snarled.
The king worked his jaw, refusing to look away, the welts blossoming on his cheek not enough to cool Dodd's ire. "Yet still you fear my words," he whispered, a ghost of his royal strength flickering in his eyes. "Even bound and defenseless, you dread what I might say to him. You're no different than Killian."
No different? Pendragon's words needled beneath his skin, and somewhere deep within, Killian's consciousness stirred. He sees right through your facade. Cold fury coiled at the base of Dodd's skull as he forced Killian's presence back into dormancy, his breathing measured and even, masking the battles waging within.
"Words," he replied to Arthur, his voice falling smooth as silk despite his hands curled into fists, "will be the last remnants to abandon you, lingering even as your mind fractures into nonsense and madness." He straightened, realizing that he'd leaned over Pendragon in their confrontation. So close he could feel heat radiating from the king's skin, minute tremors running through his frame.
Fever, not fear, Dodd thought. He turned back to Mordred, stepping aside. "Begin. Now."
Face pale as burial shrouds, Mordred edged closer to the king and began the spell once more. His fingers traced ancient symbols in the air, first the Old Tongue, then transitioning to the eastern incantation Dodd had drilled into him for days:
"Ic ábede þone éarendel, Ming-zhi, þá sweartan ágælstnyde Yīng-po, þone wyrdstán Lumīn-shu..." He paused, drawing that centering breath as he'd been instructed, before continuing with the eastern phrases that followed, "to áræran hiora mihta!"
Mordred moistened his lips before the commanding words—ones Dodd knew were more complex for the boy—spilled effortlessly from his mouth: "Bring forth those killed on the gallows trees! Through his mind, through his body, through your power let him suffer their deaths!"
As the final syllable died on the air, Dodd grunted at Mordred's choice of execution: a quick and simple death, though still nourishing enough. The boy's shoulders sagged slightly as he lowered his arm – as though the cost of what he'd summoned also pressed upon him.
The opal's verdant glow filled the room, pulsing with ancient power as Pendragon's eyes rolled back, a gasp tearing from his lips. The king's head lolled against the stone, his breaths rapid and shallow. A fine mist formed above his brow, twisting into spectral nooses as the spell took hold, before its glow dissipated.
"There, you see?" Dodd said, his voice softening with pleasure, ignoring the remorse evident on Mordred's face. He leaned closer to observe Pendragon's convulsing throat, fingers hovering just above the king's neck as if tracing the path of the invisible noose. "Now watch him strangle."
Arthur's body convulsed violently, his breathing transforming into desperate, shallow gasps, each one more frantic than the last. Mordred watched, transfixed in horror as Pendragon's face contorted in agony, his eyes staring at horrors only he could see, struggling against pain only he could feel. The king's hands clawed futilely against the rock-cuff bindings, his body writhing, and throat straining against invisible nooses.
A strangled gurgling – the faint, wet sound of congestion – issued from Pendragon's throat, and Dodd tilted forward, studying his reactions with scholarly interest. "He sees them now," he murmured. "The hanged. Their ropes tighten around his royal neck."
"Why?" Mordred asked with sudden reproach, his voice echoing through the alcove. Dodd stilled momentarily, then raised an eyebrow in cold amusement. "I never wanted to kill him—not like this."
"Of course you did, you foolish boy." Dodd narrowed his eyes to dangerous slits. "And you'll do it again – until I order you to stop. Until his spirit is utterly broken or he is truly dead." His attention returned to Arthur, dismissing Mordred's protest as inconsequential. They'll determine what to do with him later.
Pendragon's thrashing slowed, his face purpling. His eyes bulged, bloodshot and desperate, the invisible noose finishing its work. With a sickening gasp and final shudder, he went limp against the stone. His features smoothed, momentarily claimed by death's embrace. Dodd tsked in mock disappointment.
In that precise moment, the three gems in the circlet flared with blinding intensity, throwing eerie shadows across the cavern walls. The flames of every torch dimmed to mere embers before surging back to life with unnatural blue-tinged fire. A chill swept through the alcove like winter's first frost, disturbing their hair and clothing and other loose objects.
Mordred stumbled back, eyes wide, arms folding around himself. Dodd retreated a step, his fingers twitching at his sides—a rare tell in his otherwise controlled demeanor.
"What was that?" Mordred asked.
Dodd frowned, a memory surfacing with disturbing clarity as he straightened his hair and robes back into place. He'd witnessed identical signs only once before, when present at the fulfillment of a prophecy decades ago—the otherworldly lights, the unnatural flames, the sudden chill and gust of wind. His gaze shifted to Pendragon's still form, then to Mordred, a strange unease settling in his chest.
"Nothing," he said, though uncertainty colored his voice. "A reaction of the gems from continuous use—nothing more." He stepped away from Arthur's unconscious form, circling the slab despite the disquiet gnawing at his certainty.
"Your execution of the king was sufficient, I suppose. Now revive him," Dodd ordered, breaking their pattern of allowing the king a few hours respite between torments. His snared Mordred's eyes with his own, expectant and unforgiving. "And call for something more protracted and excruciating. Summon those consumed by flame at the pyre. Mordred… don't falter again."
The druid swallowed hard, his spine going rigid as the circlet's jewels pulsed with ancient power. The boy's hands quivered, dread lurking behind his downcast eyes. The tension across his shoulders revealed his inner conflict, yet Dodd knew the outcome was inevitable. There would be no defiance, no clemency granted. Only capitulation to his commands and Pendragon's eternal suffering.
In that same moment of Arthur's surrender – finally forced to yield – Master Iseldir halted mid-stride during his morning prayers, the ceremonial bowl of water he carried slipping from his fingers, shattering against the new stone altar. He stared into the distance, his features contorting as if an invisible blade struck him. His breath caught, shoulders sagging. No blade – terrible knowledge instead.
Madoc and Gethin rushed forward from their places at the edge of the circle. Madoc, his weathered face tightened with concern, grasped one of Iseldir's arms. "What is it?"
"It—it… is done," Iseldir whispered, his voice carrying through the suddenly still grove where dozens of druids had gathered for morning prayers and were now observing them.
"You sensed something in the currents of magic?" Gethin asked, his skeptical nature momentarily replaced by dread. He gripped Iseldir's other arm.
Iseldir nodded once, the solemn movement claiming more of his strength. "The sword has fallen." Knees buckling, their hold on him tightened, both elders guiding him toward the ancient oak near the edge of the grove, away from the gathered congregation and more elders rushing forward. "Destiny's hand has struck."
"Is it… Mordred?" Madoc asked once they were beyond earshot of the others.
"The prophecy of Emrys and the Once and Future King stands upon a terrible precipice." Iseldir closed his eyes, fragments of vision seizing him like a fever chill—a king bound to stone, a circlet of ancient power, a young druid with trembling hands performing dark magic. "The wheel turns as it must."
"But how can you be certain?" Gethin pressed, ever the doubter, nervously tracing the runic patterns in the air with his staff, his other hand still firmly supporting Iseldir.
Madoc stopped him with a raised hand. "Mae'r tywyddwr yn gwybod," he murmured. "The prophet knows."
With Emrys silent since yesterday, neither word nor thought, Iseldir felt a hollow absence where their magical connection should pulse. Such was the burden of his position—to stand alone as witness when ancient prophecies fulfilled themselves, a solemn responsibility the goddess placed on no other druid, not even his trusted seconds. His gaze drifted toward Camelot's distant towers, the spires void of flags and fanfare.
"Gather the elders," he said quietly. "We must prepare for what is to come."
Stáncostunga béo gefæstnod - Let stone bonds be fastened
Ic ábede þone éarendel Ming-zhi, þá sweartan ágælstnyde Yīng-po, þone wyrdstán Lumīn-shu to áræran hiora mihta! – I call upon the guiding light Ming-zhi, the dark soul-catcher Yīng-po, the fate-stone Lumīn-shu to raise their powers!
Gebrengen þá ácwealdun galgtréowum! – Bring forth those killed on the gallows trees! Through his mind, through his body, through your power let him suffer their deaths!