King Arthur waited on the dew-slicked grass in the small valley between his army and Mordred’s. The clouds hung close, hiding the sun and almost merging with the morning mists that still clung to parts of the lowland.
How very like Mordred to force me to wait on him, Arthur thought as he watched his son approach from the opposite hillside. He shook his head. This was a time to find common ground, not criticize. He needed to make peace.
“Fine day for a battle,” said Mordred, stopping five feet away. He was flanked by four of his knights, as was Arthur.
“Perhaps when you’ve aged another twenty years,” said Arthur, “you will not be so eager for fighting.”
“Hah!” Mordred spat on the ground, just missing Arthur’s left boot. “Old as you are, if you weren’t outnumbered, I wager you’d be eager, too.”
There might be a grain of truth to that, but Arthur refused to concede that aloud. Arthur commanded only one hundred and forty-six knights and pikemen, while Mordred’s army totaled at least two hundred. Some who followed his son had once been Arthur’s own men. How had he let them slip away from his leadership?
Arthur realized his fists were tight, and he had to make a conscious decision to loosen them. Why do I let him get to me so easily? “You’ve done me grave wrongs, Mordred, but I would not see England torn apart.”
“It’s you who has torn it, father.” That last word sounded like a curse. “Your mistakes.”
“Perhaps.” Arthur sighed and his shoulders sagged slightly. He had made mistakes, that could not be denied. Even with the best of intentions, some things still went wrong–like Lancelot and Guinevere. But he could not think about that now.
He straightened again and tried to put confidence in his voice. “What was torn can still be mended. If I claim you as my son and heir, will you lay down your arms?”
Mordred frowned and rubbed his beard. “You are serious?”
“Never more so,” said Arthur.
#
Silvery mist swirled around Morgan Le Fay, shielding her from the eyes of both armies. She stood less than a hundred paces from Arthur and Mordred, but no one suspected her presence.
On hearing Arthur’s proposal, she shook her head. “Still searching for the happy ending, Arthur? Not today.”
Morgan pushed back the hood of her silver silk cloak and untied the thick black ribbon that held back her strawberry blond hair. She dropped the ribbon on the ground.
Reaching into an inner pocket of her cloak, she pulled out a tiny glass vial, half-filled with ruby liquid. Morgan unstopped the vial and with practiced precision allowed one drop of the viscous liquid to fall on the ribbon.
She squatted down, and in a voice that was half whisper, half chant, said, “With serpent’s tooth go forth to bite, and make the armies here to fight.”
The ribbon writhed and swelled. With each moment that passed, it looked less like a ribbon and more like a black-scaled snake. When the transformation was complete, it vanished.
#
“Then I think we are agreed,” said Mordred. “I did not think you could so easily forgive one whom you have named a traitor.” He reached a hand out for Arthur to shake.
Arthur felt as if a great weight lifted from his shoulders–his kingdom would survive. As if it were a sign from God, rays of sunlight broke through the clouds and lit up the valley.
“Sometimes it seems I have lost more by punishing treason than by the treason itself,” Arthur said, stepping forward to take Mordred’s hand.
But before he could, Arthur heard a yelp from behind him and the unmistakable scrape of a sword being pulled from its scabbard.
Arthur whipped his head around to see which of his men had drawn a sword, just in time to see Sir Griflet strike the head off an adder.
“What treachery is this?” Mordred’s question was accompanied by the sound of his sword being unsheathed.
Arthur turned back to Mordred. “He was killing a snake,” he said, but as he saw Mordred’s men draw their swords he realized what was about to happen.
Up on the hill where Arthur’s men waited, Sir Bevidere’s voice rang out. “To the king! Rally to the king!”
“No!” he shouted, trying to wave his men back.
It was too late–they were already charging down into the valley, and Mordred’s men came down to meet them.
“No,” he said. He knew it was all a mistake, but he had no choice but to draw Excalibur to counter Mordred’s attack.
#
“Not today, Arthur,” said Morgan. Her smile was tinged with sadness. “Not today.”
Sun glinting off their helmets, knights clashed together at the line of battle.
#
Sun glinting off their helmets, football players clashed together at the line of scrimmage. The cartoon image of a knight on horseback adorned the maroon helmets, under the words Camelot High.
Aidan Macarthur took the handoff from the quarterback and swept to the right. With a surge of excitement, he realized the offensive line had made a hole, so he planted his right foot and turned upfield. In a moment he was through the line–and that’s when he saw the linebacker charging for him.
The ball seemed to squirt out from between Aidan’s arms. Not again! he thought as he desperately reached out to get the ball back, but then the linebacker hit him and he found himself planted flat on his back with the breath knocked out of him.
Somewhere, a whistle blew.
Aidan’s lungs strained to bring in air. One of the other players offered him a hand and helped him to his feet.
“Hey, kid,” said Coach Zimmerman. “Come over here.”
Trying not to gasp for each breath, Aidan trotted over to the coach. “Sorry, Coach. It kinda slipped out–”
“I gave you a chance ’cause you got the speed, kid.” Zimmerman shook his head. “But you ain’t got the guts. Try track–there’s no hitting in track.”
Aidan took a gulp of air. “But . . .”
Zimmerman turned away. “Who’s up next?” He pointed at one of the other boys waiting on the sidelines. “You, get in there. Let’s see whatcha got, kid.”
Great, Aidan thought. Not even the first day of high school, and I’m already a loser. Shoulders slumped, he took off his helmet and walked toward the locker room.
#
In the darkened room, the man and the woman sat at a round table, staring at a crystal ball two feet in diameter. Inside the crystal was the moving image of a teenage boy in an ill-fitting maroon and gold football uniform.
“That’s Merlin’s chosen warrior?” said the man, his accent reflecting his British origin.
“His name’s Aidan Macarthur,” replied the woman. Her accent was British, too. “All the signs point to him.”
The man shook his head. “Poor boy. Oberon will use his bones for toothpicks. We need a new plan.”
“Merlin’s plan is our best chance of success.” The woman lifted a folded cloth from the table and covered the crystal ball.
“So we put things in motion. Fulfill the plan,” the man said. “Then we perform the Ritual of Alcestis.”
The woman frowned. “That could work. But it might drive the boy mad.”
Shrugging, the man said, “A mercy compared to what Oberon would do to him.”
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