The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (38 page)

As the sun touched the
horizon, the drums of the two opposing armies tapped in dreadful counterpoint.
The portcullis was raised, and the knight in golden armour clattered through
the castle gates and across the drawbridge followed by his men. Signalling them
to halt, he bowed his head, and after a few moments of silent prayer, kissed
the hilt of his sword and lowered the visor of his helmet. Then spurring his
horse, he galloped directly at the enemy. In seconds he and his men were
surrounded.

The breeze brought to Arthur
the grim clang of steel on steel. Many a knight crashed to the hard ground,
mortally wounded by sword or lance; many more, thrown by their mounts, lay
helpless, unable to move, weighed down by their armour, waiting to be trampled
to death or skewered through the visor. Horses reared up to the sky, dripping
saliva and blood, screaming their agony. Thousands of footsoldiers were
slaughtered; those who survived scattered and ran in terror from the
battlefield.

Through all the chaos and
confusion of battle the knight in golden armour galloped back and forth on his
white horse, and no man could withstand him. At the day’s end, when only the
faint cries of the dying disturbed the silence, he rode up and down the field
of battle, his sword flashing red in the light of the setting sun.

Around him lay thousands of the dead and dying,
both knights and footsoldiers. From the far corners of the field his men
galloped to him, having suffered miraculously few casualties. Removing his
helmet, he bowed his head and thanked God for the victory. Then brandishing his
sword in triumph, he led his knights back to the castle. Reigning in his horse
as he approached the drawbridge, he looked back at the battlefield strewn with
bodies, and on his face was a look of such profound sadness that Arthur was
moved to tears.

There had to be another way, a better way than
Merlin’s.

 As the weeks and months passed, Uther’s
malicious leak to the Press was gradually forgotten, and Arthur’s star was once
more on the rise. A man of integrity and principle had appeared on the
political horizon, an excellent performer in the House, respected by his own
Party on both back and front benches, popular with the British public, indeed
everything a

politician ought to be.

In the spring of 2024 Leo
Grant finally stood down as leader of United Labour. Arthur Pendragon offered
himself as the new leader and was elected by unanimous vote.

The following day the Prime
Minister, his father, Uther Pendragon, rose in the House of Commons. ‘We have
not always seen eye to eye,’ he began, ‘however I would be failing in my duty
as Prime Minister if I did not wish the right honourable gentleman otherwise
known as my son, much luck and success as leader of the opposition.’ A pause
for effect, and he added, to laughter and applause, ‘Long may he continue to
hold that office.’

Arthur responded gracefully.
‘I thank the gentleman whose name I bear for his kind words, and can only
assure him that I intend to pay him the greatest compliment a son can pay his
father – by stepping into his shoes at the earliest opportunity.’ Members, many
on the government benches, appreciated the joke. Uther did not. After the
debate he caught up with Arthur in a Westminster corridor. ‘Stepping into my
shoes,’ he hissed scornfully. ‘Stepping into my shoes!’ he repeated loudly, his
voice trembling with anger.

‘Let me tell you, Arthur,
these shoes are a few sizes too big for you. You know your trouble? You are so
blinded by your own arrogance and conceit, you think yourself a match for me.
Stepping into my shoes! Think again. Without me you
were
nothing, you
are
nothing, you always will be nothing.’ And with that final insult, Uther
stalked off.

For a moment or two Arthur
stood there, shaking his head like a boxer who has walked into a heavy punch.
Such venom, and voiced in public. What on earth had got into his father? He and
Uther were political opponents but this was something else; this was personal.
He could only think Uther must feel seriously threatened by him to react so
furiously to such a routine exchange of banter in the House.

As it happened it was the last
time laughter was heard in the House for a long time. The remainder of the year
saw a dramatic increase in the number of terrorist incidents across the globe.
May saw the hijacking of an American passenger liner in the Caribbean. The
release of nearly a hundred convicted and suspected terrorists was demanded,
and although about half that number of prisoners were quickly released, the
liner was blown up by suicide bombers with the loss of almost all passengers
and crew. In early June huge bombs were exploded at both ends of the
Eurotunnel, and simultaneously on a train under the English Channel, causing
massive destruction and the loss of many lives. The Eurotunnel link was closed
indefinitely. In the same month a missile struck a nuclear power station in
Illinois resulting in substantial damage and loss of life. The resulting
radiation, experts predicted, would take several years to clean up, creating
severe health problems for many thousands of people. On the 22nd July a tanker
anchored off an East Coast UK refinery exploded with a full cargo of LNG –
Liquid Natural Gas – destroying not only the port and the refinery but a large
part of the adjoining town. An east wind carried the cloud of contamination
over the city and the adjoining countryside. By the time the wind dropped the
next day at least fifty square miles of the country had been affected.

It was immediately confirmed that the explosion
had not been an accident but a terrorist act.

In the House of Commons, Uther
Pendragon expressed his deepest condolences to the victims, promising that all
those affected would receive every possible assistance the government could
provide, both now and in the future. He also gave his word that ‘the
perpetrators of this vile act will be hunted down and brought to justice.’

At such a time, criticism of
the government over its inadequate handling of the terrorist problem would,
Arthur felt, be inappropriate. He therefore contented himself with adding his
and his Party’s condolences to those of the Prime Minister and assuring him of
his full support in difficult times. In private, however, it was a different
story. For Arthur this was a terrorist incident too far and he was determined
to have a showdown with his father. An attack of this kind had long been
predicted by experts, despite which very little had been done by the government
either to protect ‘high-profile’ targets such as nuclear power plants and
refineries, or to safeguard people living in adjoining areas. Another fiery
confrontation in Number 10 between Arthur and Uther spilled over yet again into
ill-tempered exchanges in the corridors of Westminster.

There was no doubt that the
New Millennium Party had been damaged by this latest terrorist incident. The
media and the public were asking why more was not being done to hunt down and
destroy terrorist cells who, it seemed, continued to carry out such attacks
with relative impunity. The increasing audacity, ruthlessness and efficiency of
Islamist and other terrorist groups, and the failure of the security services
and politicians to deal with them, created a sense of instability and
foreboding, not just in the United Kingdom but throughout the world.

On the Fourteenth of July,
2024 – the anniversary of Bastille day – a French terrorist group calling
itself the Children of the Revolution kidnapped the French President, killing
three policemen and two bodyguards in the process, and demanded a ransom of ten
billion Euros. No one, not even the French security services, had ever heard of
the Children of the Revolution. It was surmised that the group might be a front
for a Middle Eastern country, possibly the Kingdom of the Euphrates. That this
outrage was perpetrated on Bastille Day was regarded as a sick joke, an insult
to a nation that embraced the ideals of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, a
blow at the very heart of French pride and self-esteem. When the French
government refused to negotiate with the terrorists, they sent them the little
finger of the President’s left hand, threatening to cut off one finger a day
until the ransom was paid. A deal was swiftly struck – for approximately half
the amount demanded, it was widely rumoured – and the French President was duly
released.

As Leader of the Opposition,
Arthur spoke up for punitive action. Terrorism, he argued, was not a national
but an international problem, and as such had to be dealt with by joint
international action. Only a united free world could defeat the terrorists. If
this government could not do the job, let it resign and leave it to those who
could.

Uther insisted, and many in
the House agreed with him, that this was an internal French matter. ‘France,
some might say regrettably, has not been ruled by this country for several
centuries.’ This sally was greeted with cries of ‘hear, hear!’ and much
laughter on both sides of the House. ‘France is a sovereign state, and must
deal with terrorist acts as it sees fit.’

Later father and son met in an
ante-room. ‘You may have won the debate, father,’ said Arthur, ‘but you lost
the argument.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Uther, ‘you’re a bad loser.’

‘Kidnapping the French
President is not just a national issue,’ said Arthur, ignoring the dig, ‘it is
one that affects every democratic country in the world. It could happen here.
It could happen to you.’

‘If it does,’ said Uther
dryly, ‘I count on you to pay the ransom.’

‘For God’s sake, father, be
serious. You can’t make the problem go away by pretending it doesn’t exist.’

‘Let’s assume for a moment
that you might have a point,’ said Uther. ‘Mind you,’ he added hastily, ‘I’m
not saying you have. What would you do in my place?’

‘Persuade the French to join
an international task force to hunt down the Children of the Revolution and
bring them to justice. It’s essential we show the terrorists we mean business.
If we don’t, we shall live to regret it.’

‘I don’t share your pessimism,
Arthur,’ said Uther. ‘Terrorist incidents are unpleasant, certainly, but don’t
let’s exaggerate their significance. Throw your microscope away. Take the
macrocosmic view. From time to time there are earthquakes, the tectonic plates
move. This is one of those times. We have to expect a few tremors now and
then.’

‘These tremors, as you call them,’
said Arthur, ‘could be the precursors of a cataclysmic upheaval that one day
will tear the planet apart.’

‘Relax,’ said Uther, flashing
an ingratiating beam of a smile at Arthur, ‘let’s not quarrel about this, my
boy. Fighting terrorism ought not to be a political issue.’ Uther’s expression
changed abruptly from amiable to funereal. ‘You think my heart doesn’t bleed
when innocent people are killed and maimed by these bastards? Of course it
does. I’m a feeling man, as everyone knows.’ Uther struck his breast to
emphasise how feeling he was. ‘Make no mistake, Arthur, the fight against
terrorism is at the top of my agenda. I eat it, breathe it, sleep it.’ Sensing
perhaps that he had overstated his case, and that Arthur was far from
convinced, Uther offered what sounded like a truce. ‘Look here,’ he said, with
an abrupt display of geniality, ‘why don’t you and I sit down with the boys
from MI6 and the anti- terror branch and discuss tactics. Put a bomb under
them.’ An apologetic grin. ‘Metaphorically speaking, of course.’ His brows
arched. ‘How would that be?’

‘I’d like that,’ said Arthur.

‘Then we’ll do it. Mind you,’
said Uther, ‘I’m not committing myself to any change in government policy, or
anything like that.’ A genial smile. ‘You wouldn’t expect that, now would you?’

No change meant no progress.
His father had thrown him nothing more than a sop. ‘Is it still government
policy to do deals with terrorists?’

‘I don’t mind telling you what
government policy is, Arthur. Between ourselves, that is. Of course if you
quote me, I’ll deny it.’ Uther lowered his voice to a conspiratorial blur. ‘The
way I look at it, the bad guys – terrorists to you – they are bound to notch up
a success or two here and there. Let’s face it, we can’t stop them every time.
They’ll win a few battles, but there’s no way they’re going to win the war.
Whenever they get seriously out of line, we give them a bloody nose, just to
let them know who’s boss. But if we over-react, they might get the idea we’re
afraid of them. They might even start to believe they’re the ones running the
world.’

Arthur shook his head
despairingly. To think that this man was Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
He wondered how many world leaders like him there were out there. ‘That may
have been true thirty years ago but it certainly isn’t now. The bad guys are
not satisfied with pickings any more. They don’t want our left-over scraps.
They want everything. And if we’re not careful they’ll get it. The world has
never been such a dangerous place. These days you can make weapons of mass
destruction in a bath tub, or on a kitchen table – a nuclear bomb, deadly
biological agents like anthrax and botulism, gangrene and cancer and plague,
not to speak of chemical killers like sarin and nerve gas. Today it’s the
French President. Tomorrow? Who knows? It could be a city. Or a country. My
God, they could hold the world to ransom.’

Uther clapped his hands in
ironic applause. ‘Great stuff, Arthur. Apocalyptic talk. Whatever next?
Doomsday?

Ragnarok? Twilight of the Gods?’

In his heart Arthur knew he
was wasting his time. Still he refused to give up. Somehow or other there had
to be a way of making his father see reason. ‘You can mock, but is it really so
fantastic? Think, father, think. The terrorists have the weapons and the technology
to destroy us. They also have the will, which is more than we seem to have.’

Arthur gave his son a
patronising pat on the arm. ‘You worry too much. Everything is going to be
alright. Trust me.’

Within a few days of this
latest confrontation between father and son, rumours about Arthur began to
circulate in Westminster and the news media, rumours that were difficult to
scotch because they had no substance, and appeared to be mere expressions of
opinion. Where they originated no one would or could say. When the Downing
Street Press Office came under suspicion, they issued a vehement denial. The
essence of the rumours was simple. Arthur, it was said, could not be trusted,
either by his colleagues or by the electorate – not because he was not a man of
principle, but because he was a man of too many principles – in other words a
zealot, one of those passionately dedicated idealogues who start wars without
meaning to. Principles blindly adhered to were dangerous things. Terrorists
murdered people in the name of principles. The sad truth was that Arthur
Pendragon was misplaced in politics. He should take the cloth, or become a
professor of some abstrusely theoretical subject at some remote place of
learning. Practical matters like running the country should be left to others.

The final, and perhaps most
damaging rumour of all, insinuated that Arthur’s motives were suspect. What did
he really mean when he spoke of uniting the free world? Such arrogance! Such
presumption! Who was going to lead this united world of his? Why, Arthur
Pendragon of course! Was the leader of the opposition a would-be dictator
parading in a freedom fighter’s clothes, a latter-day fascist, posing as the
planet’s saviour?

One minute Arthur was alone in his office, the
next, Merlin was there. So accustomed was Arthur to these sudden manifestations
that he no longer bothered to comment on them. Virgil hopped on Arthur’s left
shoulder and gently nibbled the lobe of his ear.