Eye of the Oracle

  Sitting on a hearth near a crackling fire, Morgan laid a sword on her knees. “It’s time to put Chereb back into service. My dragon slayer is ready to begin his work.”

  Naamah, kneeling in the warmth of the greenish flames, caressed the ornate hilt. “How will you get it to him?”

  “Chereb is not for my slayer.” Morgan set the blade next to the hearth and rose to her feet. “It is for the king.”

  “Arthur?” Naamah asked, rising with her. “Why?”

  Morgan kissed Naamah’s cheek and whispered into her ear. “It’s all part of the grand scheme Lucifer and I have been cooking up for centuries, and it’s finally time to let you in on it.”

  Naamah set her hands on her hips. “Because you need me to do your dirty work, right?”

  “Don’t worry. You’re perfectly suited for your part in the plan.” Morgan gestured with her head toward the room’s exit. “Follow me.”

  Morgan strode across the marble floor of the high-ceilinged room, Naamah trailing close behind. “I have experimented with this sword for centuries,” Morgan said. “Even with the blood covering, it wouldn’t work for Ham or his son Cush. Yet, it flashed its sacred fire for Nimrod.” She paused at the entrance to a dark corridor. “Tell me, Naamah, how was Nimrod different from his ancestors?”

  “He was a king.”

  “Yes. It seems that kings and leaders of clans, like Noah, are able to summon the sword’s power.” Morgan entered the corridor, walking more slowly now as she passed by a series of heavy wooden doors, each with thick metal bars in their solitary windows. “Nimrod lost his kingdom,” she continued, “because he didn’t bother to renew the blood on his hands before the battle at the tower. The fool relied on the candlestone to defeat the dragons. Arthur, however, won’t need blood. He is a follower of the enemy.”

  A low moan emanated from one of the windows. Naamah longed to see the suffering of the prisoners, but even on tiptoes, she couldn’t peek inside. “So, only a king can use Chereb?” she asked.

  Morgan stopped at the last door in the hallway and lifted a key ring from a hook on the wall. “I don’t think so. An old prophecy I once read implies that any king’s heir or anyone he designates can use it as well.” She slid the long, slender keys around the ring, eyeing each one. “I wanted Mardon to test the sword to prove my theory, but since he is merely a dead spirit in our caverns, my experiments were probably useless. That’s why I will give it to Arthur. When he gets the sword, he will show it to Merlin, who will certainly know all about its secrets. If Merlin can use Chereb, then I will be certain about the designation theory, and my dragon slayer will make sure I get it back at the proper time.”

  “But when you get it back, we won’t have a king or any innocent blood to cover his hands.”

  “I have a plan to install a new king.” Morgan pinched a key, letting the rest of the ring dangle. “And we have sources for innocent blood.”

  “Sapphira and Paili?” Naamah raised her eyebrows. “Would you dare kill one of them?”

  “No. Paili’s presence keeps Sapphira in the lower realms, right where I want her.” Morgan inserted the key into the lock, pausing as she gazed through the bars in the window. “And I cannot take Sapphira’s blood. She is too dangerous, though she has no idea how powerful she is. Every person who spills her blood meets an untimely demise.”

  “Yes,” Naamah said, shivering. “I know. We could really use Nimrod right now.”

  Morgan nodded. “In any case, Sapphira is unable to thwart my ultimate plan without her twin oracle, and Acacia is long dead, so I don’t mind keeping her around. Her abilities in the control room are quite valuable.”

  “I follow your plan so far, but what’s your source for innocent blood?”

  Morgan turned the key and slid a heavy bolt to one side. “My prisoner will provide it.”

  “Are you sure he’s innocent?”

  “Since he was born before the enemy’s visitation, I’m not sure.” Morgan swung open the door. Naamah peeked inside, but all she could see was a tiny, empty room with an open trapdoor in the middle of the stone flooring. Morgan walked in and knelt at the trapdoor’s opening. “Shem dedicated him to God at his birth, and we captured him before the normal age of corruption. He has aged but a little, and since his only companion has been strife, I suspect he qualifies. But with the plan I have in mind, I won’t need his blood.”

  “What? I thought you said ”

  “Confused?” Morgan laughed. “After we talk to him, you’ll figure it out.”

  “So,” Naamah said, spreading out her hands. “Where is he?”

  Morgan pointed into the dark shaft. “Exactly where I expected him to flee. The sixth circle. That’s why I moved him to this cell after the Messiah cleared his followers out of the underworld.”

  Naamah peered into the blackness. A downward draft pulled on her hair and clothes as it swept into a chasm of apparent nothingness. “Is the village of the dead down there?”

  “Yes. What’s left of it.”

  “So he’s alone?”

  “Come. I’ll show you.” Morgan stood, and her body shrank, quickly transforming into a raven. Naamah spread out her arms. They flattened into leathery wings, and her hands molded into wrinkled claws. Within seconds, she began circling the room in the form of a bat.

  Morgan jumped into the hole. Naamah dove headfirst in pursuit, plunging into the cold, black downdraft. Within seconds, the air warmed, getting brighter as they plummeted. Morgan spread out her wings and began to glide in a wide circle. Naamah followed her path, though her fluttering, jerky motions weren’t as graceful.

  They landed in a village that looked like a deserted copy of Nimrod’s Shinar, not the marble-coated center of town, but rather the poorer outskirts. Hoofprints marred the muddy streets, and long rows of quaint stone huts stood in disrepair. A gust of wind lifted a broken piece of roof thatching and blew it across the street to a vacant marketplace, scattering straw among the empty carts of the missing vendors.

  Morgan and Naamah returned to their human forms. Naamah pulled her hair back, staring into the crisp breeze. “Hades is a lonely place since the Messiah’s visit.”

  “Yes,” Morgan said, smoothing out her dress, “but the sixth circle is perfect for keeping prisoners. Elam doesn’t ever seem to need food, so I can’t use hunger to break his will. Yet, this circle will soon be home to spirits that will drive him mad, and Elam will finally do what I ask.”

  “Spirits? What kind of spirits?”

  “Lucifer’s spies have told me that Elohim has created an abode identical to this one, a parallel home for the spirits of dead dragons. It seems that the two dimensions will intermingle in very interesting ways.” Morgan pointed toward a stack of boxes at the side of the market. “I saw him.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “Elam. I saw you. There’s no use hiding back there.”

  Elam stood up behind the boxes, revealing his tall, boyish frame. He walked straight toward Morgan, a club in his hand and fire in his eyes. “I was only hiding so I could crack your head open.” With the club ready to strike, he leaped at her.

  Morgan raised her hands and thrust them outward. A wall of darkness threw Elam backwards, making him fly to the market. He slammed against the boxes, crushing them under his body. Slowly rising from the heap, he tightened his grip on the club and glared at Morgan. “I will get out of here. Just you wait and see. I’ll make you pay for what you did to Raphah.”

  Naamah took a step closer to Morgan. “He still looks like a teenager,” she whispered, “and he’s really rather dashing.”

  “Yes,” she whispered back. “I was hoping you would think so. It will make your job more pleasant. You will sing songs of doubt and treachery into his mind, but this isn’t the time or place to explain.”

  Elam threw down his club. “I’m not going to stand here and be gawked at.” He began stalking away. “If you have anything to say to me, I’ll be at the kil
ns.”

  Naamah chuckled. “He’s got spunk. That’s for sure.”

  “Yes, and we’ll use that against him.” Morgan raised her arms and began transforming to a raven. “Come now,” she said, her voice changing to a squawk. “It’s time to return.”

  Naamah reverted to a bat and followed Morgan upward, leaving the light of the world below and plunging into darkness. As they rose, they battled the downdraft that swept air from the prison cell above, now a tiny light in the distance.

  Finally, they burst through the current and landed in the cell. Naamah flittered around for a moment, then planted her sharp claws before shifting to her human form. Brushing her hair with her fingers, she watched the raven stretch upward and reshape into the tall, slender frame of Morgan.

  “If you wanted Elam’s blood,” Naamah said, “why didn’t you just take it from him instead of holding him prisoner?”

  Morgan shook her hair back behind her shoulders. “I already told you. It’s not his blood I want. He will just provide the way to get Sapphira’s.”

  “But why don’t you just get Anak to kill her? He’s expendable.”

  “Because he is not able to kill her. Lucifer’s spies learned that an oracle of fire cannot be murdered unless she is betrayed by someone she loves. Sapphira didn’t speak up for Acacia when she took the bread, so Acacia lost her protection.”

  Naamah smiled and winked. “So you have to get Sapphira and Elam to fall in love?”

  “No. Romantic feelings have nothing to do with it. We need absolute trust and sacrifice. Only complete trust generates the brutality of real betrayal.”

  Naamah knelt at the edge of the trapdoor and gazed into the darkness. “But with Elam down there, how will you get them to love each other like that?”

  “When someone eats out of the hands of another, both the giver and the taker trust each other without reservation.” Morgan eased the trapdoor past Naamah’s head and closed it with a loud thud. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. I was surprised that you let them get away with that.”

  “It’s all part of the plan,” Morgan said as she headed for the exit. “And now we need a singer of dark lyrics to break that trust, little by little.”

  Naamah rose and followed her. “Not a problem,” she said, winking again. “The words are already forming in my mind. If this song doesn’t make him doubt, then nothing will.”

  Edward sat uneasily on Thigocia’s back, shifting his weight to keep the tough scales from pinching him. To his right, his friend Newman sat on Makaidos, looking even more uncomfortable as he adjusted his breeches while balancing his body with his shield. To his left, four other dragons waited, three of them with riders who sat tall and motionless, the trio of elderly warriors that Makaidos had brought out of retirement.

  In the distance, a blanket of mist shrouded a huge swamp, and a high mound protruded from the waters like a swollen womb. A small building sat on top, a humble, thatched-roof house of worship with a rugged, stone bell tower at the front. Far to the left, a smaller hill rose above the swamp, its western slope stretching to the mainland. Weary Hill, they called it, the resting spot for Joseph of Arimathea after his long journey from Jerusalem. The bridge that once spanned the two hills was gone, destroyed by the invaders, and wood fragments still floated about the swamp, occasionally washing to shore.

  The mist hovered in place, not a breath of wind to stir it, a perfect shield for the enemy troops that might approach again from the north. Edward nodded toward the water’s edge. “Newman, stop pulling on your pants. The king’s coming.”

  King Arthur marched toward the line of dragons, his sword and shield in hand. He stopped in front of Makaidos and bowed. “Your presence is most welcome, King of the Dragons.” As his eyes met those of the aged warriors, he smiled. “I recognize these human heroes of my childhood, but please tell me the names of your dragon soldiers so that I may properly address them in battle.”

  Makaidos nodded toward the others. “In order from your left to your right, the king has at his service, Thigocia, my mate; Valcor and Hartanna, twins born to us since my arrival here; Legossi, a daughter of Maven; and finally, Clefspeare, Goliath’s and Roxil’s only son.” Each dragon bowed in turn.

  “Greetings, noble dragons, and welcome.” Leaning over, Arthur sketched a map in the drying mud with his sword. “Sir Devin’s scout tells us that the Saxons are massing behind the great tor, and they seem to be migrating toward Weary Hill.” With rapid strokes, the king drew a credible likeness of the two hills and the surrounding swamp. “We will counter them here,” he said, stabbing one side of Weary Hill.

  Sir Devin pointed at the map with his own sword. “But wouldn’t that open up our flank to a water passage between the hills?”

  Arthur scratched a line next to Devin’s blade. “The dragons will be able to sense any approach, so they will guard that side.”

  “Your Majesty,” Devin said, sliding his sword back into its scabbard, “I beg you to fortify all sides with humans. I know you do not trust the dragons as much as you appear ”

  “King Arthur!” Makaidos interrupted. “I sense danger!”

  Arthur straightened, raising his sword with a tight grip. “How near?”

  “It is strange,” Makaidos said, his ears twitching rapidly. “Somehow the danger lies between the two of us, yet there is no one here.”

  “An invisible enemy?” Arthur asked. He sliced his sword through the air, then back again. “If he is here, he has no body that my sword can cut. Perhaps a ghost?”

  “Even as you move the blade,” Makaidos said, “the focal point of danger seems to move.”

  Arthur held up the blade and squinted at it. “The sword is dangerous?”

  “I have heard of swords that seem to have a life of their own,” Makaidos said. “Where did you get that one?”

  Arthur held it close to the dragon. “This is the very sword I pulled from the stone as a lad, but it is no more alive than the stone was.”

  Edward cleared his throat. “Sire, if I may be so bold . . .”

  Arthur nodded. “Speak, squire.”

  “While you were scratching the mud, I think I noticed a slight quiver in the blade. Could it have been damaged during this morning’s skirmish with the enemy’s scouts?”

  Arthur gazed at Edward curiously, then bent down and banged the sword against the ground. The blade broke cleanly away from the hilt.

  Makaidos stretched his neck and sniffed the broken blade. “Yes, that must have been the danger.”

  Arthur shook his head. “If this had happened in battle, I would have been helpless.” He rose and bowed to Makaidos, then to Edward. “I am in debt to both dragon and squire,” the king said.

  Edward took in a deep breath, swelling his chest. He couldn’t resist the feeling of pride. He had made another step toward proving himself worthy of his father’s name. Now, if he could only get another shot at Goliath.

  The king threw the worthless hilt on the ground. “It seems that I need another sword.”

  Instantly, the sound of a dozen swords sliding out of their scabbards rose into the air. Edward thrust his forward first. “Take mine, Your Majesty.” His words echoed from the lips of every knight within earshot of the king.

  Arthur laughed. “My good soldiers, I cannot take any of your weapons. Then you would be disarmed and ”

  A haunting moan drifted in from the swamp, starting with a loud hum that slowly formed a stretched-out call. “Arthurrrrrr!” The voice seemed to stir the mist with its breathy echoes. Every man and dragon shifted toward the sound, the swords swinging away from the king and toward the shadowy water.

  Near the shore, a ghostly female form hovered over the swamp, her long hair and gown flowing as the mist swirled all around her. With her body veiled, she seemed a phantom, perhaps even an embodiment of the mist itself. She raised her arm, holding an indistinguishable object in her hand.

  Edward shifted
his weight on Thigocia’s neck, trying not to tremble. The sound of murmuring filtered through the ranks.

  Arthur raised his hand. “What are we? A pack of boys playing at war? Where is your courage?” He turned to Makaidos, his eyes alternately fixed on him and the phantom. “Do you sense danger from her?”

  “Without a doubt, Sire. If she is not a demon, then she is something akin to one.”

  “But she bears a gift,” Thigocia added, “and it is something holy.”

  “How do you know?” the king asked.

  “I can sense it.” Thigocia turned on her eyebeams and pointed them at the apparition. “Her aspect gives her away. She holds the gift as if it is abhorrent to her essence, as if its goodness invades her nature like a foreign army.”

  The voice drifted in again, louder and more pleading. “Arthur, I have been called to give you the ultimate weapon.” With a mighty heave, she threw the object toward them, a sword spinning end over end until it pierced the ground near the shoreline.

  Devin stepped forward. “Shall I fetch it for you, Sire?”

  Arthur laid a hand on Devin’s chest and called out to the floating specter, “Who are you, and why do you offer this gift?”

  “You may call me the Lady of the Lake. You will need this sword to conquer your greatest foes. It is called Excalibur, for it can cut both steel and stone. You will also learn to use its most powerful secret, the secret of holy fire.” The mist created a whirlpool of fog over the surface of the water that seemed to absorb her ghostly form. “Beware of those who call themselves friends,” she said as she sank lower, “for ambitious usurpers will bide their time with smiles and bows while they await their chance to take your throne.” She disappeared, and the swirling mist settled to complete stillness.

  Arthur marched toward the swamp, waving his arm. “Edward,” he called, “come with me. The rest of you move to the front lines, and I will join you there as soon as possible.”

  Edward pointed at himself, mouthing his own name.

  Newman kicked his ankle. “You’re the only Edward around here! Get your carcass down and follow the king!”