Camelot Burning (27 page)

My mother's advice rings in my head. “Marcus.”

He's reluctant to face me.

“If duty weren't … ” No time for explanations. I take a deep breath. “I'd go with you. I wouldn't look back.” I've always dreamt of escape, but it's not my path anymore.

His posture doesn't change, nor does his face. And that's what makes my breath hitch. Tears prick at my eyes.

“When you pull the lever, you'll activate the wings. You'll know it when you see it.” And I have to trust Victor will live up to its design: attack the drones, kill Morgan.

I wipe my cheeks on my dirty gloves and run the other way, back through the colorless gardens. I force myself to accept this passed moment as a likely goodbye.

Then, as the trees envelop me, as my feet tread upon dying violets, footsteps follow. His voice speaks in its sad way.

“Vivienne.”

I turn, and he's right there. He pulls me under my elm where no one will see us. His hands clasp my face, and his mouth crushes against mine. My arms go around his neck, and I pull him close, promising myself I'll never forget this.

He pulls away, and the enormity of this task escapes neither of us. But even stronger is the wonderment of what Morgan would do to her spy, the traitor, in this war.

The lace around my waist is full of charcoal and smells of smoke. I rip the tail into a piece long enough to wrap around his wrist. My fingers mingle with his. “Godspeed.”

Marcus captures my face again. Our cheeks tearstained and dirty, he leans in to kiss me once more and then runs out from under the tree. The waiting horse jerks when Marcus leaps onto its back, but he grabs the reins and steadies it. His eyes find mine one last time before he rides for the gates.

He's the last to follow Galahad and the knights, but catches up quickly and disappears beyond the threshold.

I look upon the dull gray of our new Camelot, where once it was lush and green. I'm not sure of my purpose now, of what happens next. All I know is I'm supposed to stay out of the witch's way, lest she were to capture me. The gardens are eerily silent as the ringing of war numbs my ears.

The weapon pulsates from below. It still hasn't surfaced.

But in the sky, a new threat.

Thirty-Three

It's not an aeroship, which was my first thought when I saw the celestial body flying against the sky.

But my attention is quickly seized by firelances from Camelot's walls sending staccato blasts across the land. A guard cranks a wooden wheel, speeding up the split-second firings. I duck to avoid the falling shells.

Boulders of iron fly over the gates. I race to the walls as they strike the gardens. Dried leaves burst into the air like wooden snowflakes. My body flushes against cold stone. On the other side is Marcus, and perhaps he's already fallen.

I can't think that way.

Why hasn't Victor risen?

I curse and look back at the serpentine smoke from the destroyed clock tower, at the stark glint of … something flitting around like an angelic mosquito. Part of me wants to hope Merlin was right when he told me about ghosts and their machines: there was
a point of no return.

The smoke soars through the clouds and then plummets, a distinct set of translucent reptilian wings and a long, fluid tail nearly twice the length of its body. It beelines for the gates. I gasp as a ghostlike dragon with cloudy white eyes hovers like a hummingbird, head cocked to the side and peering at me. Its scales are fluid with wind. Remnants of tribal tattoos and facial piercings shimmer like white light.

It forces a screeching breath of translucent fire. Angular wings strike the air, sending trees and branches flying into the castle. The face is familiar. The face is reminiscent of the monster Merlin and I forged out of metal.

The spirit flies into battle. I follow, running over the drawbridge. The ghost breathes white fire into the drones—so many, they're like locusts atop the land—turning them into magnificent flames.

Knights and revenge-hungry serfs send copper-lined blasts into red-hot enemy eyes. Arrows through helmets. The strong figure of the blacksmith slashes a drone's throat using an iron hook plastered with a copper point.

At the forest's edge, Morgan sits atop her stallion with an endless parade of demonic steeds behind her. A burn, fresh and crimson, falls down her neck, courtesy of the rusty harvester I blew up. The armor covering her wounds is black like the drones', but lined red. Two swords cross her back in a studded leather holster. An entire fence of wagons boasts erupting cannons, enormous like the gallows.

“Merlin! You thought you could defeat me without magic! You're powerless!” She wields one of her long blades, pointing it at the ghost and uttering a loud cry indecipherable in its tongue. The hilt has a golden firelance with a long double barrel. She fires. The dragon tumbles back nearly a hundred feet. Through sputters of flashing light, it materializes into a cloak-clad Merlin, on hands and knees, keeled over with pain.

“Merlin, get up!” I whisper through gritted teeth.

Merlin's head hangs low, but with a sharp cry, he stretches his long, reptilian neck toward the witch, shifting into the dragonesque ghost once again. His lips pull back revealing dagger-sharp teeth. Iridescent wings sprout from his back and strike the air, sending tornadolike winds across the fields. Merlin soars for the witch, breathing fire. She casts her palm forward. Flames ricochet back, forcing Merlin to vanish and reappear several feet away as a man.

An idea comes to me: if I got close enough to fire my crossbow, Merlin would have the chance to finish off Morgan.

It could mean my death.

I take a breath. My hand flies to my forearm to click my last arrow—bolt—into place. I gasp. Nothing. I'd thought there was one more. I could have sworn there was one more.

But a quiver does lie on the other side of the drawbridge …

The ruffling of wind accompanied by a long horn pulls me from Merlin's fight. I glance at the sky.

“Azur … ”

An entire fleet of aeroships soars straight for Camelot, all bearing the telltale white-and-gold flag of Jerusalem, luxurious sails beating down the breeze. At the forefront is Azur. He grasps the mast at the ship's bow, goggles drawn over his eyes. Behind him, a band of sailors eases the ship lower. He cries out in his native tongue and unsheathes the saber at his waist, pointing at Morgan.

The warriors in the fleet likewise lift their sabers. With a loud battle cry, cannonballs sail to the ground, forcing the witch and her drones away from Merlin.

My spirit strengthened, I tear my eyes back. Morgan will be defeated in no time.

For now, she is amused. She retrieves the second blade from her back and points the crossed tips at the ghost. “I admire your tenacity, Merlin. You have the persistence of a mindless machine.”

Merlin smirks. “No, Morgan. Machines lack heart.”

The propelling wind counters the heat from battle. I pull from the gates as Azur's aeroship lands. To get ammunition from him is a better plan than the quiver across the drawbridge. Azur runs for me, gripping a saber plated with copper. He lifts his goggles.

“The weapon, child! Where is it?”

“It hasn't risen yet!”

“You cast the
jaseemat
into the heart? As Merlin told you?”

“Yes, yes, I did exactly as needed to be done! It came alive, but—”

His eyes tilt toward the rumbling ground. “The weapon still digs.” He firms his jaw. “Very well. My warriors have come to help Arthur. Jerusalem does not want to see a world where Morgan finds the Grail. We will die for Camelot first!”

“I need bolts, Azur!” He must have some on board.

“No, Vivienne!” he shouts, worry lacing his words to-gether. “You cannot be caught!”

He turns back to the aeroship. His warriors have jumped from its plank wielding copper-plated sabers. They unsheathe more weapons and storm past to fight alongside Arthur's knights.

I search through the smoke for the quiver, but knights kick it aside as they fight. Drones stomp atop the bolts until I hear the snapping of wood.
Blast.
My eyes scan the archery front for some that might have been forgotten.

Azur's orders reach the anchored aeroships in the sky, all with cannons creating a rainfall of iron, crushing the drones. “Destroy her infantries!” he shouts, switching to English. “Leave the witch to Merlin!”

They call back, “Yes, sahib!” The sky goes black from their attack. Morgan bares her teeth.

Merlin, shifting from man to reptile, casts fire upon her. Morgan deflects it. He vanishes, reappearing an entire field away, running and leaping into the air. Talons, long and sharp, are ready to slice at whatever flesh steps in his way.

The sorcerer and the witch are close enough that perhaps I could get a good shot in. The nearly demolished quiver has three unbroken bolts. “I have to try.”

But Azur holds me back. “Do not die a foolish death.”

Morgan crosses her blades with a loud clang. “I'll have the girl, Merlin. Mere seconds inside her mind will show me the coordinates to Avalon!”

I freeze at her insane declarations.

I don't know where Avalon is. The images of golden cobblestone streets, a castle floating on the clouds, a matte chalice with iron studs: all the result of Owen's fairy tales told through shadows and gaslight.

“
I don't know what she means,” I whisper. Azur tenses.

Morgan whispers magic. Merlin advances. Her voice inaudible, she drops one sword, grabs the second with both hands, and when Merlin has leapt for her, she pierces the dragon's breast. The ghost materializes back into a man of flesh and bone, her sword threatening to dissect him.

“No!” I scream.

Azur grips my shoulder. “There is nothing you can do.”

“There could have been!” The copper-tipped bolts gleam their hardest through the smoke.

Morgan squeals with glee as she plunges the blade deeper into Merlin's heart. He falls to the ground, coughing up clots of blood. Shuddering with pain, he cocks his head toward the castle with fading eyes.

I can't believe what I'm seeing. I'm losing all sense of hope. And perhaps Merlin knows that. He lets warbling white flames extend from his nose and mouth like hot vapor. He rolls his head on his neck, shuts his eyes, and reopens them to complete fire.

“No, Merlin,” Azur whispers. “Death would be more favorable, old friend. You know this.”

But it's too late.

“The girl is the least of your concerns.” Merlin's eyes redden until iron-hot. “You failed, Morgan. Now Camelot's victory is imminent.”

Even Morgan steps back.

“
Essah tah je evanescehah oblivnohamehcha! Convertaha mesha in manesqui intokiah apparatuseeh!”

The blade pushes out from Merlin's chest amid a tornado of wind and white fire.

“Oh God,” I whisper.

Morgan grasps her
fusionah
and points the barrel at Merlin. Her irises swirl with red and gold. Her teeth grit. She clicks the hammer back and fires.

But too late: Merlin's body flashes into a wisp of white light that slams into the sky and strikes the earth. The world shakes, and then all is still. Morgan stands wide-eyed and furious, eyes searching. She screams in defeat and retreats to her soldiers, shouting at them, activating them. Enslaving them.

“Merlin stole more magic, Azur,” I hear myself say. “Didn't he?”

I glance at the alchemist. He's lost in thought. Refusing the clear truth in front of us. His old eyes narrow on Morgan. “Right now, we have a witch to slay.” He pulls down his goggles, lifts his saber high, and runs to help the king.

It's a scene of good fighting evil, and I'm not sure who will be victorious. Just beyond the gates, Arthur slices at Morgan's soldiers as cannonballs slam into the ground. Excalibur is not only an unthinkable conquest for Morgan, it's stronger than her magic, and Arthur's copperless blade slays drone after drone as he seeks his sister. Gauntlet seizing his entire right arm, the king plunges Excalibur into another drone's chest. Dark, steaming blood pours free. Flashes of white light overcome the iron jaws. Eyes turn red like a deadly sun and then fade.

The thunderous booms go silent. It's enough for some of the knights to stop, pant, and wait.

Then the ground caves in.

Thirty-Four

Possessed soldiers, warriors of Jerusalem, Round Table knights—they scream as they fall into the abyss. My hands cover my mouth in horror as I watch them fight to climb the avalanche of dirt. Most fail.

As they fall, Victor rises. I'm flush against the wall as taloned claws pull up Merlin's weapon, grip the dirt, crawl to a slow stop. Wings lie at its side, cold and mechanical, untouched by Azur's
jaseemat
.

I sputter for air.

Because Victor's blue eyes are rimmed with gold.

Morgan falls back to avoid the collapse of land. Her soldiers shift in direction once they see the magnificent monster.

I backpedal to the castle, unable to tear my eyes from the Victor. Once inside, my hand slips against the wall.

“Oh!”

I've pushed open a door to a massive wooden wheel looking over the moat, where drones barrel through to avoid Victor's—
Merlin's—blasts of fire. My eyes dart to each detail of the mechanism. I know what cranking it would do. “Raise the steel platforms.”

Next to me, blood splatters. A drone falls. Before I can scream, there's a blast, and Percy is there, a smoking
fusionah
in hand. His face is thick with dirt and blood. There are heavy footsteps on the drawbridge, and Percy turns toward them. Two of Morgan's soldiers appear, all too close to the gates for comfort. Percy's
fusionah
kills them fast.

I want to escape this madness. But if I did so, I'd be waiting for Morgan to corner me, extract bewildering coordinates from my mind, and torture me, even if she can't use
Telum Paret
on anyone here. I'd be waiting for her to enslave me through her thievery of magic, to claim the Grail, and then what?

Three bolts left. Drones are dreadfully close to Camelot's walls, and I have a plan for them, but the bolts are more urgent. I race across the drawbridge. Once I reach the other side, my shortened dress lets me slide in the dirt, grab the quiver, and set it across my back. I stand, snap the bolts to shorten them, and fit one to my crossbow.

I catch sight of Arthur by the outskirts of the forest. Excalibur raised above his head, he freezes when he sees Merlin's machine. But as he gawks, something black moves behind him.

“Arthur!” I scream.

The king turns in time to slam Excalibur against a drone, but he's caught off-guard when another appears, its saw-like blade a caveman's version of Lancelot's hooked edge.

Arthur isn't fast enough to strike twice.

The blade comes down, ripping Arthur's skin from neck to waist. The bolt falls from my crossbow as it happens. More drones come after me, but I cannot aim, I cannot fire. I'm not a soldier—I'm a bloody handmaid playing war. How could I possibly make a difference?

In front of Arthur, a copper-tipped shaft strikes between the drone's red eyes. The plates of the point snap open on the other side, trapping the bolt to the skull. From the city walls stands Owen, an empty crossbow in one hand, a second copper-tipped bolt in the other. He fits it in place and aims again, should the drone's dying feat be in retaliation.

But Morgan's soldier falls dead.

And my eyes burn with shameful tears.

Arthur limps away, blood on his lips. Pushing emotion aside, I grasp another bolt, ignoring the sharp edges of the point slicing through my glove and into my palm. My breathing heavy, I affix the bolt to my crossbow and ready myself to fight through this.

“Send for the infirmary!” Owen calls over his shoulder. Below, my father overseeing the archery front reiterates the cry.

Owen leaps rashly from the wall, straight into a sea of armored bodies. A cannonball flies through the spot where he once stood. It slams into the gallows. Shards fly through the square, forcing me to cover my head and run until I reach the gates. Victor's screeches chill me. I race over the drawbridge back to the stone wall. I can't breathe, might never breathe again. Knights spared from the long drop to the catacombs curse brashly and jump out of its way.

The wheel connected to the iron platforms is right next to me—

“Destroy it!” Morgan screeches.

Victor extends its limbs in an attacking stance nearly two hundred feet from Morgan's legion. Fire blasts from its mouth. Drones continue through the flames. Knights, warriors, and serfs stand their ground for as long as they can, but their bravery is limited and most inevitably flee.

Only Marcus remains. And Morgan is no fool—she's spotted her traitor. “Serf! I'll have your mother's blood!” She summons more drones. When they hear her screeched magic, they straighten and march forth.

Three black-armored soldiers rise in the fog. One slices Marcus's face, cutting a fine line from his eyebrow to chin. Marcus slams Lancelot's sword against the drones' backs, sending them into the depths of the crater.

More storm toward Marcus, but they'll have to pass through the moat's murky waters first. I race back to the wheel and set my weight against a spoke the length of my body, gritting my teeth and crying out as the mechanism slowly gives. Black boots splash through the water. The wheel churns, and I lead it clockwise. The drones are too simpleminded to notice iron platforms extending from under the castle, covering the water. Too slowly they move and so are crushed against the bank of the moat. I lean against the wheel, catching my breath. Percy and Galahad kill Morgan's trapped minions.

Marcus sends his horse running into the forest. He sprints toward Victor as Morgan's cries summon more slaves awake from the inanimate machines they were. He crouches low in case Victor's tail were to swing and knock him clear into the long, black drop.

“Marcus … ” What have I asked of him?

A drone races across the steel platforms for me. But I don't scream this time. I push away fear and lift my right arm. Red eyes flash at mine. A blood-soaked blade lifts to strike. My finger yanks at the pulley. The bolt flies perfectly into its head, and suddenly, I can't remember if it's the second or third life I've taken. I'm horrified, but I cannot think of it anymore than that.

I cannot think anymore.

I have to make sure Marcus isn't killed.

Pulling tightly on his thick leather gloves, Marcus grabs hold of the scales and lifts, but then drops with a wince. His gloves have ripped. His hands are covered in blood. The scales are razor-sharp.

He ducks to avoid Victor's spewing flames. Lancelot's sword in his grasp, Marcus sets the blade between the scales. Hilt clenched in one hand, point in the other. It presses against the tearing leather on his left palm.

Using the sword to lift himself, he maneuvers the hilt higher on Victor's scales, then the blade. The steel's strength does the work for him. Shining spots of red peek through the leather, making his grasp slippery—the blade is clearing a path. With a pained face, he moves the sword higher.

The beast sways in frustration as Marcus climbs. To steady himself, he grips a large triangular scale running down the spine. Bright-blue eyes too human watch him. Only the sorcerer has eyes like these, and Marcus is stalled for too long not to realize that. He takes a breath and pulls down the long lever protruding from the shoulder blades, using every bit of strength. The dragon goes silent. Its eyes close. Marcus leans over, breathing heavily.

Then Victor bursts with movement. Wings come to life from Azur's
jaseemat
. Fluid, strong, the wingspan extends into two crescent moons of humming metal.

“Get off, Marcus! Run!” I scream. I don't know if the ghost in the machine can control the danger it is. There's only one bolt left in my grasp. I'll need more to cover him as he runs. Slicing through the smoke is another set of red eyes. My crossbow fires, and those eyes turn white from death.

As Victor leaps into the air, Marcus stumbles onto its back. But when the monster is too airborne for him to fall safely, his bloodied hands grab the scales. Rabid blasts pepper away at drones below. Angry blue eyes flare as Victor's creaking body twists toward the ground.

“Merlin!” Marcus screams. But he cannot scream again and keep his hold.

The dragon alights the soldiers with fire, swooping over the ground. Low enough now for Marcus to drop. He lands on his stomach, rolling away just in time to miss the length of the wing snapping down as Victor returns to the sky.

Marcus backs away on his hands and knees, close to the crater's edge, but turning in time to avoid the drop. Then the tail's mace slams against the ground, and the land breaks under Marcus's weight. He hangs from the edge. Only his elbows serve as leverage as his legs dangle wildly.

“Marcus!” I scream.

I race into the thick of battle. Cannon blasts make their way toward me. Drones in the thousands, knights slaying them. There are more bolts on the field, and I seize a handful, reserving one for a quick kill.
Don't think.

I slide in the dirt when I reach him. “Marcus!”

His hands grip mine. “You can't hold my weight,” he says through frightened, chattering teeth.

“Yes, I can!” I lie, unwilling to let myself see the future of finding his cold body below.

He shakes his head. “We'll both fall.”

I'm losing my grip from the swirling blood on his palms. But then a strong hand grabs Marcus's arm and lifts.

It's Owen.

Dirt on his face, empty crossbow in hand, he pushes me aside and grunts as he helps Marcus to stable land just as the edge breaks away.

The three of us watch the split-second in front of us fade to what could have been. I lean my head against my brother's shoulder.
Owen, you've returned.

We stand. Owen gauges Marcus. “You all right?”

Marcus's face is shockingly white, but he nods.

Owen turns to me. “Viv, send anyone you find to get Arthur to safety.” He grabs my hand, and for a split second, I wonder if he'll tell me again this is not the place for a girl. “Be careful. Morgan calls for the handmaid of Camelot.” He steps closer. “She's ordered her soldiers to take you alive.”

No order from Owen to escape myself—the wise thing to do. But I cannot think about his terrifying words now. As drones turn their empty faces toward me, I regard Arthur, hunched over, depending fully on Excalibur for strength. Azur calls to him, fending off advancing drones as Arthur twists in pain. With one final look to Marcus and Owen, I run.

I run straight for Arthur. Everyone in the kingdom fights to keep Camelot from Morgan. I know this. If I can help it, I won't let all we've sacrificed be for nothing.

I circumvent the crater. My ears listen for the whistling of cannonballs. The heavy footsteps of the drones—

A pair of red demon eyes breaks through the smoke before me.

My hand flies to the quiver on my back, but a bit of shining silver whipping through the air is faster, copper edges turning it into a ball of fire. The throwing star strikes the drone's head and sends it into the castle wall with a loud clang.

From across the field, Galahad turns back to battle. And I rush for the king whose singing blade impales the stomach of a demon-eyed soldier. Azur next to him decapitates two more.

“Your Majesty!” I stumble at the sight of Arthur's skin curling away from his wound. A drone's shield slams into his jaw, throwing the king off balance.

Excalibur flies into the air and lands a foot in front of me.

“Give it to me!” Arthur bellows, hand outstretched, green eyes frantic.

The blade shines through the smoke, a spectacle of power, just as when I first saw it. I inch closer. The gauntlet is enormous, as Arthur is a man nearly twice my size. But as I think this, the gauntlet seems to shrink until it's small enough for me to wield Excalibur. My lips part with desire.

“Girl, now!” Arthur screams. More drones advance.

I seize it by the blade right where it meets the hilt. I grasp it tightly even when the edge presses into my palms. Excalibur is dreadfully heavy, but perhaps even more of a burden to Arthur. I'm careful to avoid the steel gauntlet gripping the sword that knows I am not the king. The whirring blades inside spin with a maddening, bone-slicing pitch. The euphoria of its gleam …

Excalibur wants me to claim it,
I realize.
My sliced-off arm would become legend, like the skeptical farmer's.

Shaking free of such insanity, I reach Arthur and slam the sword into his hands before the temptation is too great to refuse. The blade chimes as it leaves my grasp. The gauntlet locks itself around Arthur's shoulder. The king swings Excalibur at those two oncoming drones, stealing the lives of both.

Arthur's face is white like his hair; his mouth and teeth coated in crimson. He lays a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“He is hurt!” Azur calls through the noise.

“I still have some fight left!” Arthur shouts back with strained effort. He glances at me with eyes too pain-stricken ever to survive.

It has to be now. “Your Majesty, you need to get inside the castle!”

Arthur shakes his head. He regards the danger around us. “Forget me. Get Lancelot. In the dungeons. Send my wife to safety.”

I fear for Arthur's well-being, but nod. I won't think what it could mean for his life.

“Go to where the knights practice sword fighting—”

“I know where the dungeons are.”

He doesn't ask how. With a quick nod, he dismisses me, and I run to the castle, praying the cannons won't find me there.

Inside, one could nearly forget Camelot was under attack.

It's quiet enough that the thumping of my boots reverberates loudly against the carpeted floor. My stomach lurches at the memory of agonizing screams, how they splintered the air.

By the trees of Avalon machines guard that which Camelot's son will one day find.