Arthur

Arthur Page 18

Chapter Thirty-five

"I was betrayed," said Merlin, circling Arthur. His black robe seemed to lift and fall on unseen currents of air. "I was betrayed by a woman I loved."

"The two of you sought a shortcut to magic," said Arthur, turning his head, following the dark magician. "There is no shortcut, Merlin. There is living. There is life. There are lessons to be learned. The soul's progress is a slow one, too slow, apparently, for you."

"So I deserved to waste away in eternal solitude?"

"What you deserve is what you asked for," said Arthur.

"I asked for magic. I asked for the ability to perform miracles. Jesus performed miracles. Why shouldn't I?"

"With practice, with care, we can all perform our own miracles," said Arthur. "However, you chose not to see it that way. You chose to accept a different way. A faster way. A darker way."

"Magic is magic, is it not?" asked Merlin. Now he began circling Marion, studying her closely, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"Except you were not performing miracles," said Arthur.

"And what was I performing?" Merlin asked, genuinely interested.

"Cheap parlor tricks, nothing more than the spiritual equivalent of slight of hand." Arthur's voice suddenly turned somber. "You are a puppet to the darkness that lives within you, my old friend, a darkness you have invited in to serve you. Or so you think. In reality, you serve the darkness."

And as Arthur uttered those words, a very hideous and foul creature rose up from the swirling depths of Merlin's robe and opened its mouth impossibly wide in a silent scream, revealing long, curved teeth. Arthur flicked his wrist once and the creature recoiled instantly, disappearing into the churning depths of the robe.

"Well, old friend," said Merlin, "I performed the greatest trick of all: I escaped."

"And so you have," said Arthur. The two men were now cautiously circling each other. Between them was Marion. She didn't seem too enthused about being the hub of two old foes. "But at what price?" asked Arthur.

Merlin hissed, "At any price, you fool. You, too, would have paid any price to escape my living hell."

Marion took this opportunity to step away from the circling men - and stepped toward me. I took her hand and pulled her to me.

"Perhaps," said Arthur, still focused on Merlin. "But perhaps there was another way, too. There is always another way."

"You are speaking of God," said the wizard. "I assure you, He wants nothing to do with me."

I had the distinct feeling that I should not be here, that I was eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for my mundane ears.

"On the contrary," said Arthur. "He loves you very much. More than you know. You have strayed far, old friend. Very, very far. But you are never too far from God. He will always, always let you back in. And you will always be His son."

"You sound like a priest, my lord. And since when did you become so holy?"

"I have lived many lifetimes since our days together," said Arthur. "I have learned much. I have grown much."

"All while I have wasted away."

"All while you contemplated the results of your actions. All while you were given every chance to return home with God. But you chose another path."

"I escaped," said Merlin.

"And sold your soul."

"A small price to pay."

"No," said Arthur. "The ultimate price to pay. But I am here to tell you that God can redeem your soul. You can still go home if you choose to."

Merlin seemed to falter. He paused, opened his mouth. His lips were impossibly red and full, as if coated in fresh blood.

"To go home," Merlin said, "is to die."

I found myself wondering what the heck that meant, until an answer appeared in my thoughts, an answer, I realized, that was from Arthur:

Dark magic, or dark energy, is keeping his body alive, James. These energies have, in effect, taken him over. After all, he is over fifteen hundred years old, and the moment he drives these low-level energies away from him, his body will shortly die, as it should have done centuries ago.

Arthur, what the hell are you doing in my head?

Oh, hi, James. Thought it might be easier this way.

Well, you could have warned me or something.

Sorry, old boy.

"To die," said Arthur now to Merlin, "is to be re-born in God's presence. You will be home with Him, and He will love you and heal you."

"No," said Merlin, pulling back his red lips. "I'm afraid you lie, or purposely deceive me. To die is to go to hell. To die is to return to the cave. And I will never - never! - return to that rocky hell."

"But you are in hell now, my friend," said Arthur.

Merlin was no longer listening. He stopped in front of Marion and cocked his head a little.

"She is very beautiful," he said, reaching out and taking hold of a lock of her hair, letting it fall between his long, skeletal fingers. Marion shrank away, clearly revolted. "Ah. She is dying, I see. A pity. A waste."

He moved to touch her face, and Marion promptly smacked his hand away.

Merlin didn't react at first, although his coat seemed to come to life, swirling and fluttering in obvious agitation. And then the immortal wizard did something he would forever regret:

He slapped Marion hard across the face.

Chapter Thirty-six

Without thinking and in a blind rage, I threw myself at Merlin, heaving my left fist as hard as I could.

Something within his coat shrieked, a supernatural warning system, and the wizard turned his face just as my knuckles grazed his chin. Still, the force of the blow sent him spinning away, stumbling across the raised platform.

And then all hell broke loose.

Men poured into the stone chapel. Through broken doorways, over broken walls, and even through the open windows. Men from another world, another time. How Merlin recruited them, I didn't know. Who they were, I didn't know. Why they were here, I didn't know. What I did know was this: they were all brandishing very real weapons, and they all looked like they knew how to use them.

And while the men poured in, Merlin did something that made me question my sanity all over again. He levitated straight up from the floor, up above everyone's heads. Indeed, he would have hit his own head on the ceiling had there been a ceiling. Instead, he hovered above us like a weather balloon from hell.

But I didn't have much time to gawk at this, because a very large red-haired man appeared before me, yelling like a madman and swinging a heavy mace straight at my face.

I was a poet and didn't know it.

So what rhymes with dead?

Easy, my busted head.

And since I happened to like my head where it belonged, I ducked and heard a thunderous whoosh of air pass over me.

Holy, sweet Jesus.

Red Hair had another go at me, heaving the weapon with both hands, but this time aiming for my torso region. Instinctively, I brought my sword up and, with a resounding clang and enough force to knock me sideways, I somehow managed to keep myself alive for the next few minutes.

Lucky me.

We slowly circled. Surrounding us was a motley crew of a dozen or so heavily armed men. Some wore armor, others didn't. Some had light skin, others dark. Some had pointed ears, others had the more traditional round ears.

Lord help me.

All of them, however, seemed intent on one thing: hurting me very badly.

And so I raised my sword and kept an eye on those who had also crept behind me. Red Hair apparently took my raised sword as a challenge and lunged at me again, swinging his mace wildly.

And just to keep me on my toes, another man from my left attacked, aiming a long knife straight for my heart.