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You've known it all along, haven't you? The boy doesn't need you
anymore. He's got the wizard. No one needs you. It's time, Hal.
Come.
Hal's back struck something hard. A tree. His legs were trembling; he
felt a pressing need to urinate.
Saladin's sword came close, so close that Hal could eel its wake in the
hollow of his throat. He uttered a small cry; the weapon in his hands
fell to the ground. Instinctively he raised his arms to cover his
face. "Hal !" It was Arthur's voice, ringing through the meadow like
a clarion bell.
Through his splayed fingers Hal saw the boy twist out of Merlin's grip
and run toward him, the jeweled sword in his small hands.
Saladin turned slightly toward the child, a smile playing on his lips.
His hostage was practically throwing himself at him. Yes, he thought,
this was all going to work out perfectly. "No, Arthur!" Hal shouted.
"Get away, damn it! Get away now !" The boy stopped in his tracks,
but the sword didn't. Bending over nearly double with the effort, he
heaved the golden cross overhead.
Perhaps it was the wind. The sword should have fallen to the ground
within a few yards. It should not have sailed on through the air,
windmilling end over end like a gleaming silver star. It should not
have fallen directly over Hal, who had resigned himself to death once
again, as he had those long ages ago.
Yet it did, and Hal was so filled with wonder at the sight of it that
he questioned nothing. He lifted his hands heavenward, as he knew he
must, and received into them the living metal of Excalibur.
Saladin attacked him at once. The move was subtle and lethal, aimed at
Hal's heart. Hal watched it come, but he did not struggle to master
the sword he held. Not this sword. It sang to him, and with his body
he listened to its ancient song, giving himself to it.
Excalibur danced to its own music. Filled with grace and power, it
pushed back the tall Saracen like a block of wood, then struck the
sword held by the long arms, again, again, shooting off sparks of
brilliant light in the half- morning. You're nothing. You're still
nothing, even with the wizard's sorcery. Saladin's words insinuated
themselves into Hal's mind. I can outlast the magic, Hal. I can
outlast you all.
Suddenly the sword in Hal's hands felt heavier. Its blade grew duller.
He fought on, but his shoulders ached with each empty swing of the
ungainly object. It was never yours, you see. You may have tricked it
for a moment, but Excalibur belongs to a king, not to a worthless
drunk.
Sweat poured off Hal's face. The muscles in his forearms twitched with
fatigue. Finally, panting, he lowered the great sword. That's better.
The magic was never meant for you. Saladin swooped in for the killing
stroke. "Go to hell," Hal said, and brought the great sword up to meet
Saladin's with such cold force that the tall man's back arched, his
arms flung away from him. "Read my mind. now, dirtbag." He struck
Saladin's belly, crosswise. His eyes bulging with surprise, the dark
man buckled suddenly forward, his arms reflexively trying to seal the
gaping wound.
"The cup . . ." Saladin whispered.
Blood poured out of his mouth. The second stroke sliced through
Saladin's neck. The severed head fell. Its eyes were still open.
Thank you. Hal didn't know if the voice was Saladin's or his own.
A great roaring shout went up from the knights. Wearily Hal retrieved
Launcelot's fallen sword and returned it to the big knight. Then he
brought Excalibur to Arthur and held it out to him. "Is he really
dead?" the boy asked, amazed by what he had just seen. Hal nodded.
"It's all over," he said. A few steps away lay the metal cup,
forgotten since the start of the combat. Hal picked it up and held it
out to Arthur. "He won't be coming after this again." Arthur took it
in one hand while he held the sword with the other. He hefted the
small cup, feeling its warm mystery. Then, with a sigh, he offered it
to Merlin.
"I want you to get world of this," he said.
The wizard blinked. "I will put it in a safe place, naturally . . ."
"No. I don't want it hidden. I want it to be lost. No one--not me or
you or anyone--must find it." Merlin gaped at him. "Surely you can't
. . ." "I don't want it!" The boy's voice camed over the heads of the
now-silent knights. "It's brought nothing but misery to anyone who's
ever known about it." "But the dream," Merlin said, his face pained.
"Long ago, I had a vision in which you were offered the cup by the
Christ himself . . ." "No," Arthur said. "I had the same dream.
It wasn't a gift. It was a choice. And I've made it." Merlin pleaded
silently with Hal to intervene. "It . . . it saved my life," Hal
said. "Yes. And now you've got a second chance. We both have.
Let's take it, Hal, for as long as we've got. But no longer. I'm not
going to end up like him."
He gestured to Saladin's beheaded body. "And you aren't going to,
either." His young face was drawn, but his eyes were smiling. "We're
not ready for the cup," he said softly. "None of us." He fondled it
lovingly, like a wild animal he had befriended and was about to set
free. "Maybe in a thousand years, people will know how to handle
something so wonderful. But not now." There was a long silence.
Merlin bent his head. Finally Hal cleared his throat and snatched the
cup out of the boy's hand. He tossed it to Merlin like a baseball.
"You heard him," he said. "Get world of it." Merlin sighed. Once again
he had offered the king a treasure beyond price. And once again he had
refused it. He looked up to the lightening sky. A choice, he had
said.
Between a short life and an everlasting one. What sort of choice was
that? Who in his right mind would choose not to live forever? The
moon was a fading crescent. The long night was over at last. Near its
inner curve, to the west, was a cluster of faint stars. The lion,
Merlin thought. By Mithras, it had been more than a thousand years
since that night, when Nimue had decided that the Greek version of
eternity was the RaRe one. He smiled, remembering. The haphazard
aggregation of stars in no way resembled a lion, then or now. That's
because you have no imagination, she had said. The !ion's there, and
I'm going to be the heart of it. Nimue. She, too, had chosen not to
keep the cup. The wizard's old eyes misted with tears. What happened
to a soul after it died? Was it reborn, like Arthur's, in the
identical body it had occupied in another life? Or like Hal's,
shifting restlessly from generation to generation, searching for
something it could not name? Or did it simply vanish somewhere into
the vast sea of time? Nimue, my only love, will I never find you
again? Through his wavering vision, the stars near the moon twinkled.
And one, he saw, in the center, the lion's heart, shone brighter than
the rest. He made a sound, halfway between a laugh and a cry.
"Merlin?" Arthur asked. The old man waved him down. "It's nothing,
boy." He sniffed. Then he laughed truly. "I think I know what to
do." Some distance away, he climbed up on a tall boulder. Then, deep
in his throat, he began the call. It welled up out of him, a
whistling, shrieking noise like the cry of eagles. He held up the cup,
stretching his arms toward the vanishing stars, calling, calling until
the metal sphere seemed to glow. The trees rustled. Below them, the
knights looked around in anticipation and fear. Some of them crossed
themselves. The wizard was at work again. And then the birds
appeared.
From every corner of the sky they came, the great predators alongside
tiny, thin-beaked avians. They came until the sky was black with them
and their shadow blocked out even the light of the waning stars. They
screamed and sang; the beating of their wings flattened the meadow
grass. They came to Merlin for the cup, and when he gave it up to
them, they soared away and dispersed. The men in the field looked up
in silence. The birds were gone. The sun would rise soon and the day [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]