Chapter Five
Arthur’s arms ached as he raised his sword to parry yet another blow from Mordred. I’m nearing my end, he realized. Merlin was right to warn against fighting today.
He tried to ignore the moans of the wounded and dying men around him. For a too-brief time, his own men had succeeded in surrounding him, separating him from Mordred. But Mordred’s superior numbers had worn them down, allowing his son to confront him once again. A handful of Arthur’s men still fought on against Mordred’s remaining men, but they could no longer aid him. He was alone.
At least Mordred was alone, too.
The two of them circled each other warily, each looking for a sign of weakness. It was Arthur who showed it first, stumbling as his weary legs refused to move properly.
Mordred lunged, and it was all Arthur could do to raise his sword arm to block the blow. He wasn’t quick enough. Mordred’s sword point hit Arthur’s fingers, and through the gauntlet protected them from being slashed, the force and pain pried Excalibur from his grip.
As the sword dropped to the mud, Arthur staggered back. A dead pikeman lay on the ground behind him, and Arthur almost tripped over the man’s body. Instead, he fell to his knees.
“Do not bother to yield,” said Modred. “I am in no mood to show mercy.” The carved ivory skull on the pommel of Mordred’s sword seemed to be grinning at Arthur.
Arthur’s men too far away, and Merlin was gone. There was no one to help him, except the dead pikeman.
Mordred charged toward Arthur, raising his sword for the killing blow.
Arthur grabbed shaft of the dead man’s pike, using the last of his strength to lift the pointed head toward Mordred’s torso. The blunt end was caught between the dead man and the ground.
Too late, Mordred tried to avoid the pike. The force of his own charge impaled him through the stomach.
“Then we are agreed,” said Arthur. “No mercy.”
Mordred looked down at the wooden shaft that protruded from his belly. He raised his sword and brought its edge down on the wood. Once, twice, and the third time it cut through, severing the pike.
Arthur struggled to rise from his knees, but his legs refused to obey.
Mordred staggered forward, his eyes focused on Arthur. He raised his sword and swung at Arthur’s neck. Arthur tried to duck and felt the blow strike against the left side of his helmet. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, then a point, and he felt himself falling.
#
With a gasp, Aidan regained consciousness. The cold concrete floor of the British Artifacts room lay beneath him, but his head was on something soft.
“Easy, Aidan.” His father’s worried face moved into Aidan’s field of vision.
“What happened?” Aidan asked.
“I think you fainted,” said his dad.
Aidan raised his head, then pushed himself into a sitting position. His dad was in shirtsleeves, having taken off his jacket to put it under Aidan’s head.
“Fainted?” Aidan raised his left hand to the side of his head and pulled it away, half expecting to see blood. His hand was clean. Just a dream, he thought. I dreamed about that sword.
His dad frowned. “You aren’t . . . doing drugs, are you?”
“Dad!”
“I have to ask.” His dad’s voice was uncomfortable.
“No,” said Aidan. “I am not doing drugs.”
Aidan began to push himself to his feet, and his dad took him by the arm and helped him up.
“Are you sure you’re well enough to stand?” asked his dad.
“I’m fine,” said Aidan. His head seemed to be clearing.
“Maybe we should take you to the clinic, just to be sure.”
Shaking his head, Aidan said, “Really, I’m fine.” The sight of that blood on the sword must have made me faint. Coach was right–I don’t have any guts.
“I’ll take care of this tomorrow.” Aidan’s dad wrapped the sword in its cloth and put it back in the crate. “Let’s get you home.”
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