Camelot Burning (28 page)

Arthur cannot die.

At the end of the corridor, the door awaits. I take the iron ring in hand and pull, descending into a dismal, mildew-smelling cellar, colder than the blacksmith's could ever be. Through little light, I make out thick iron bars. Labyrinths to and from each cell of torture.

Stretchers with iron handcuffs, tables with delicate tools boasting too many sharp edges, wires connected to apparatuses I know are steam-powered, ones that would send nasty shocks to metallic strips on a prisoner's arms, legs, neck. Hooks used for anything a creative mind could conjure up.

My foot slips on some condensation. “Oh!” I gasp. It echoes.

There's some shuffling in the east end. Some whispers. A woman's voice. But it's a man who speaks. “Who's there?” It's gruff. It's Lancelot. Chains clank. “God save you if you're one of Morgan's.” The voice drips with vengeance.

I shut my eyes from the horrible devices. “It's Vivienne.”

“Vivienne!” Guinevere calls.

I follow her voice through the maze and past copper poles as thick as a man's waist. A furnace at the bottom—ashes of God knows what pouring out. Owen told me once of a contraption like this, how chains would bind a man's reluctant embrace to the burning metal. The stench of charred flesh hits me, and I'm terrified to think it might be fresh.

“Here!” Guinevere calls. I find the cell they share, Guinevere with her back against the putrid wall, Lancelot standing in front, sweat on his brow but coherence in his eyes. Red blisters peek out from under his tunic and sleeves, like he was forced to hold fire.

“The hell are you doing here? You should have left with the aeroships!” Lancelot growls through a thicker beard. Guinevere's eyes are dark with fatigue. Her hair has been cut to her chin, the first form of torture to a lady of the court, but she's alive and she's safe. And I could say goodbye now.

“Arthur's hurt. They need your help, my lord.” I grip the iron bars. “And you, my lady. We need to get you out of Camelot!”

Lancelot doesn't think twice about answering. “The keys are on the wall. Hurry!” He points down the dark corridor. I want to laugh or cry at the thought of searching for more keys, but an iron ring is right where he said it would be with several keys strung onto it. I yank it down. We fit the proper key to its lock and swing the door open.

Guinevere rushes out to embrace me. “Oh, Vivienne.”

I hug her quickly. But I can't make this any harder. I must act as a lady-in-waiting, not a friend. “We have to hurry!”

She lifts her chin. “I left Arthur once. I won't do it again.”

Lancelot grabs her arm. “Guinevere, don't be foolish. All that is Camelot is gone. You can still make it. There must be some aeroships left.”

She looks as though she might cry. “Lancelot? Save him.”

Lancelot stares at her too long for only friendship and pulls her close in a tormented embrace, kissing her forehead once and setting off.

I can't bear to be in this hellish place any longer. “Guinevere, please! At least to safety above!”

She nods, and we run for the stairs.

Outside, smoke and flames twist together. Steam bursts from Victor's back as it dives upon its prey.

The smell of clashing metal fills my nose. The whirring of aeroships' propellers and the cannons thundering ring in my ears. The knights have saved the drilling ram from Corbenic's attack and drive it into the iron men who press back just as gruesomely. Morgan's soldiers advance, and they couldn't care less about their armor or mechanical parts spiraling out from the drills' sharp points, breaking through their skin and impaling them. They were forged to do but one thing—take Camelot for the witch.

The only way to convince Guinevere to take shelter is if I go with her. Lock myself away, ponder how I could know the coordinates of Avalon. Keep far from Morgan at all costs. Lancelot runs for the stables, returning with a horse and riding to the gates, no time now to get armor. He grasps a
fusionah
and carries it into the field.

I'm watching everything happen from a place outside my body. I'm not really here, I'm in the clock tower with Merlin. And we're about to send Caldor into flight.

In clouds above three kingdoms past, following enlightened thinkers vast.

“Vivienne,” Guinevere sobs from the castle's steps. Her hand reaches for mine. “Please. I can't lose you, too.”

But I can't ignore so much death on the fields. The men the witch stole are limitless to pit against us.

Morgan screams against the noise of war,
“Mordred! Seize what is rightfully yours!”
She stretches her black-robed arms toward the mechanical dragon, but Azur's
jaseemat
stands strong against her magic. Victor, likewise, cannot kill her.

A shimmer of gold catches my eye from behind Morgan's battalion. I look again. The figure steps forward. I rub my eyes, making sure I'm seeing clearly.

Through the smoke, a man of solid gold steps toward Camelot, wielding a pulsating sword the length of his body.

Thirty-Five

A desperate woman, whose son was born not expected to live …

Her magic made it possible to combine blood and machine …

The gypsy's words did no justice to Mordred. Though his armor is plain, his face is the color of sunshine with vibrant hair to match. Like his mother wanted Mordred's human side to rival that which keeps him alive.

That which keeps him alive is a machine.

With white eyes and a face reinforced with iron hinges, he marches for the king. Arthur sends Excalibur into a drone's heart with no idea his son stands behind him. War is too loud, even without the deafening whir of Mordred's blade. A lever on the hilt activates a burst of steam, propelling rows of deadly hooks to orbit the edge.

Guinevere shouts my name, but I race from the castle despite her cries, as though anything I could do might
change Arthur's fate. Mordred lifts his hell-made sword with arms whose joints are metal rods impaling the skin.
He swings the heft of his blade at the king's unguarded back. The blunt impact sends Arthur to his knees.

“Fire to the land! Force them inside Camelot!”
Morgan cries.

The drones keep coming.

Mordred prepares to kill. But Arthur misses the sawing blow and finds his feet again. He faces his attacker, staring in horror at the same shape of eyes, the same jaw as his. Excalibur chimes as it strikes Mordred's sword. The twisted hooks catch on the ethereal blade. King and machine fight to conquer the other.

Thick smoke swallows any sign of Marcus or Owen. Lancelot is missing. I search for Galahad, for Percy, for anyone I know, but cannot bear to face the fallen bodies. One might belong to the blacksmith who's kept my secret for years.

Mordred wields his saw-like sword with never-ending strength. I cover my mouth, tears striking at my eyes. The boy's mind might have been human once. Perhaps he begged his mother for death instead of mechanical life. I gasp for air and watch him hack away at the faltering king. How foolish I was to think something as weak as my damned crossbow could ever contend against the weaponry in this war.

I don't care. There are more bolts by the archery front, and I store them in my quiver. I run straight into war even if it means I could be killed. Or worse, taken alive. I can't ignore how afraid I am that torture or death may not be far off. But Morgan cannot have Camelot.

Arthur disarms Mordred, slamming his heel into his son's gold-plated chest, sending him to the ground.

“Mordred, get up!” Morgan calls. “Claim what is yours!”

My will is stronger now. Three drones storm after me with the same empty eyes as the rest. They're to take me alive. My crossbow kills each of the poor bastards before they get the chance.

Mordred shakes unnaturally as though the wires holding him together are coming loose. Perhaps Morgan's demands are too much. Certainly she cannot think he'll take Excalibur—only the king can wield that sword. And Marcus never gave her the blueprints that would allow her to create an identical blade.

Morgan charges toward her fallen son, white hair rippling. She regards her brother and extends her hand, screeching in a foreign tongue. It sends Arthur straight into the air, then straight to the ground. His bones crunch with the landing.

Morgan's eyes roll into whiteness. Her voice rustles the wind.

“Telum Paret dederresha tete ahnimum. Non quia sum paret tibishi. Tu mihi Telum Paret. Esta abiit avesho liberoshikah arbitrio.”

Each word clenches my temples like an iron vise. But it's nowhere nearly as wretched for me as it is for Mordred. My heart sinks with pity for the boy whose eyes roll back in human pain. Whose limbs shudder as though staving off blades and arrows.

He goes still. I'm frozen in place, watching. Silently, his heels edge him upward, and he's a machine once more.

Morgan's eyes shine with insanity. Dread crawls over Arthur's face. A drone slams me to the ground with the hilt of its sword. A shooting pain electrifies my body. I wince. The red-eyed demon reaches for me. My arm stretches. My finger tugs the pulley back. Bolt through the neck. The drone shudders until death claims it. They will not take me.

Lancelot rides through the smoke, sword in hand. He decapitates an unsuspecting drone. “Arthur!” Lancelot kicks the huffing steed to go faster, though it's nearly hopeless.

Victor soars over us, lashing fire onto Morgan. But the witch guards herself with a shield of magic against the white inferno. Hopeless or exhausted, Arthur trembles, and Excalibur's gauntlet slams against the ground.

“Take it, Mordred! You have Arthur's blood, my son!” Morgan screams. Her boy faces the dropped sword and his dying father. Their victory is within reach. And when the mechanical dragon claws at the air, climbing back into the sky, I know I've failed. Morgan is stronger than anything I could ever build.

Victor hovers unsteadily above Morgan as though hurt or in anguish. But then it opens its mouth and speaks. “Arthur!”

Merlin's voice. Calling for the king as Mordred storms for Excalibur, the boy looking unsure of his destiny even with such stoic features. Arthur's eyes widen. His lips shape themselves around Merlin's name, the name of the man he saw as a father, the man who sacrificed his soul so Camelot could win.

Merlin hasn't given up, and my hope is stronger upon realizing that. Now it's time to end all this.

Arthur shudders to his feet as Victor—
Merlin
—circles the sky. But Mordred reaches Excalibur first, his own saw-like blade fallen and forgotten. Mordred's arm slips inside the gauntlet. Arthur recoils in horror as the boy's face flashes white in sick pain. The blades whir inside, slicing off Mordred's arm. I clamp both hands over my mouth. Blood spurts from Mordred's lips, but he chokes it back.

Morgan casts her arm high and screeches desperate magic louder than her boy's screams.

The boy-machine shudders still and looks at his shoulder where gauntlet meets armor. He bites down on his bloody lip. But Morgan never needed Marcus to bring her blueprints—Arthur's blood was always enough. And if not Arthur's blood, then an arm mostly metal. The gauntlet solders to Mordred's body. The blades inside cease their whirring as they concede to Mordred. Arthur's jaw slackens in disbelief. I can barely breathe. Mordred grips Excalibur like the sword is part of him. His eyes lock on the king.

Morgan gleams with joy. But Arthur is quick to rise and seizes Mordred's dropped saw-like blade. The madman he was in Morgan's wood has vanished now that Merlin fights alongside him. That all of Camelot fights. Our lives might be lost in this battle, mine as well. But that can't matter. Now, we must fight together.

At the forest's outskirts, Marcus's dismissed horse searches for refuge from the growing smoke. I jump into its saddle, take a breath, and kick its sides. We leap over fallen bodies. I pry my eyes away, heading after Arthur through the ascending fog. I listen for the weapon, for Morgan's screeches, for the king's fight. Balancing atop the horse, I let bolt after bolt fly through the air.

We break through the smoke, but the witch's magic has spooked my horse, and it won't run anymore. I kick its sides, but it whinnies angrily, and so I leap off its back, running for my king on foot.

Mordred and the witch advance for Arthur. Lancelot is a fast target for black-plated soldiers. He fends off arrows using the blade of his
fusionah
to shield himself. Eardrum-shattering blasts invade each drone's skull between clicks. Armored hands likewise reach for me, and I must be faster with my crossbow.

“Kill him, Mordred! Kill him now!” Morgan foregoes her swords for magic, her hands moving in circles. An orb of light glows between her palms. Victor swoops low and blasts her with fire, forcing her magic gone. She lifts her scream to the sky. A desperate look of triumph comes over Arthur's face.

Arthur swings the caveman's blade at his son. Strikes Mordred's solid chest. Seizes Mordred's throat. He lifts the boy. Mordred grips Arthur's neck in return, refusing defeat. In one fast move, Excalibur saws at Arthur's chest. The king shudders, but steels his eyes on his heir. “I'm sorry, boy, for what your life became.”

Arthur yanks Mordred's head forward, exposing his son's neck. Victor soars toward the king. Copper-ridged bearings in the hundreds pepper against Mordred and Arthur himself until the boy's spine is sliced open. Blood and wires spill free. Mordred's eyes go still as the connecting passageway to his mind bursts with steam and fire. Excalibur melts away from Mordred's shoulder, the steel warped and ugly. Arthur stumbles back a few feet and then collapses to the ground. Mordred's blade in Arthur's grip runs out of steam. Saw-like hooks dig at the bloodied dirt and stop. And then Mordred himself collapses, falling over dead.

Morgan cries into the smoke-filled air. She is at her boy's side instantly, shaking his body. “No, Mordred! Look at me!” she cries. “Look at me.” Her fingernails bore into his skin, turning blood-red what was human, only scratching what was not.
“Yaty ala alhyah,
Mordred,
Yaty ala alhyah.”

Come to life. But it's too late for Mordred.

Morgan shakes with fury. She stands, emitting huffing breaths, low and demonic, and pushes her palms together as though forcing two crashing rivers into each other. An invisible power bubbles and twists, like air distorted above a flame. She eyes Lancelot, galloping for her.

He'll die. Perhaps I will soon after. Another drone rises in front of me. The bolt in my crossbow frees itself into its temple. Lancelot bellows a name.

Marcus.

My heart presses against my stomach. I can't tell if Lancelot calls Marcus for help or cries for his squire. Victor dives, spitting bearings and alchemic fire. Smoke clouds my vision, and I don't know where to run. I back away from the swarms of drones with their eyes on me. I barely have time to reload my crossbow's bolt compartment.

“Marcus!” Lancelot screams again.

I run onward. I send bolts into the skulls of as many drones as I can. Smoke parts in time for Lancelot to speed toward the witch. I can't see Marcus anywhere.

Morgan snaps her face toward the oncoming knight.

She'll kill him.

“No, Lancelot!”

But he doesn't hear me. He lifts his sword to attack, and a translucent sphere in Morgan's hands readies for it. Morgan throws the weight of her magic at Lancelot. He's knocked off his horse and slams against the ground.

Blades lost in the fog, Morgan unsheathes a dagger from her thigh. My boots dig into the wet ground as I run, crossbow loaded. She's ready to send the blade flying into Lancelot's heart. I check my bolt and pull the string taut as she lifts the shining blade high—the bolt might not damage her in the slightest, or perhaps would bounce off her and come sailing back at me.

Oh God.

But across the way, my king lies dying because of her.

“No, you will not win,” I whisper. My only regret is not advising Merlin to add more fuel to those harvesters.

I fire, and the bolt flies true, straight for her brow. But her hand is quick and snatches it in midair. Her white eyes flash at mine with recognition. The burn falling down her neck, like a rejected dragon tattoo of Camelot, fades to snow-white skin. “Not quick enough,
apprentice.
Tell me, is his mother's life a price worthy of your love?”

I don't know what she means, but there's no time to question it. A loud blast is followed by a ribbon of smoke, silhouetting her against grayness. Behind her stands the blacksmith. A
fusionah
rests in his hand, aimed at the witch.

Morgan keels over, and her dagger falls to the ground. Her skin falls with age. Lines and spots splatter across her face. I hold my breath, not daring to move.

In a fit of anger, she tears the armor from her body, where a sprinkling of red spills from the skin atop her heart. The blacksmith advances, reloading his weapon, but too slowly. Drones fall in line behind him, and he has to turn quickly and seize the heavy hook at his waist to slice into their barreled chests.

Morgan touches the blood on her skin. Eyes narrow as though I was the one who fired. “This isn't how Arthur's sister dies.” Angry tears spill down her old face, catching in the wrinkles, spidering outward. “Not when I'm so close. Not if my son can be brought back.”

Horror overwhelms me. What would she do to her dead boy's body?

She sets her hand flush against the wound. The outline of her fingers bursts with diamond light. Her hand falls from her skin, perfectly healed.

Immune to copper.
She lifts my bolt, and it turns to dust in her fist. I quickly affix another. With the wave of her hand, the crossbow rips from my forearm and flies across the field. It smashes into a tree.

She advances faster. Morgan le Fay, after a lady-in-waiting.

This is how I die.

I back away on soft, bloodied ground. Her fingers reach for my mind, and her eyes go white from the words
Sensu Ahchla,
and I must guard the part inside me that's hiding the world of golden cobblestone and a leather-wrapped chalice. I trip over dead knights,
fusionahs
still tight in their hands, my heels digging into the dirt. With each stride, escape from Morgan becomes more impossible. A sharp piercing splits my skull, and I feel her invade my mind. I wrench away from her magical hold. There's no dagger or sword to stop her. Nothing in my apron's pockets. Not even my damned copper viewer.

Another blast strikes Morgan in the neck. She falls to her knees, one hand pressing against the bright red blood spilling down her collar bone, a wince crossing her face. I tear my eyes to the direction of the shot.