The old man appeared in a flash of faint purplish light, transit leaving the faint smell of ozone in the air. He knew his opponent would try to sabotage the symbolic sword-drawing. He’d watched that take place months ago and tomorrow, but Morgana could well warp the timeline at this critical point. At noon, Lord Artur, a minor noble, would pull the sword from the anvil in front of Camelot’s gates, and become the first king of this land in a generation.
A quick inspection told Myrlin Ambrosius that the sword and anvil were bonded together by some sort of clear glue. The stuff was old, weathered smooth - he wondered how far back Morgana had gone to pull this off. Probably all the way.
A quick trip back to base got Myrlin a solvent, but he didn’t apply it at midnight. Rather, he skipped forward until the sky was graying and the town was beginning to stir before splashing the clear solvent all over the epoxied sword. A few seconds, he knew, and it would no longer be glued.
The old man waited those seconds then experimentally tugged the sword’s hilt slightly. It slid out a fraction of an inch quite smoothly before he let go. A child could pull the sword out now. Could he be sure Artur would get here first?
Wrinkling his brow as if getting a headache, Myrlin Ambrosius let the monument be and set the device on his left hand. One more button and he disappeared in another brief purplish flash, expression broadcasting the hope that he hadn’t made things worse rather than better.
It was a pleasant, clear early fall evening, and the town was just beginning to grow quiet for the night. With her binoculars, Morgan watched the keep intently, focusing on the lights in the king’s bedroom. It was the spring equinox, and Morgan knew that the man wearing the crown would be returning to his bed, inebriated and exhausted. Ambrose was growing frustratingly good at catching up, and it was time to try a more indirect approach, one he’d never think of. Slip a knife in his ribs and Ambrose would come back and stop it, meaning she’d never get to actually sink the knife. No, it was time to be more... subtle. Do something Ambrose wouldn’t notice.
The light in the bedroom went out. Morgan shrugged off the thick cloak she was wearing, leaving her completely naked except for the timeslip handpiece and a thin, revealing thigh-length nightgown. She altered the device, and shifted herself in time and space again.
“Who’s there?” Whispered a worried Artur from behind her. It was dark, the faintest light leaking in through the curtains. Likely, he couldn’t see her, but had heard the timeslip.
“Only a dream.” Morgan whispered, stepping silently to the bedside, internally wondering if she was making the right move. But if not me, she thought, then who? No-one could be trusted. She knew it had to be her.
Artur either believed her, or didn’t care. When she slipped into the bed next to him, he gladly took her into his arms.
To his credit, the freshly-crowned king surprised Morgan with his skill and stamina. What do you know, the big oaf does something well, she thought, fighting against a lethargic desire to fall asleep right there.
As soon as she could tell he was asleep, Morgan, hoping she had what she needed, but not entirely fearing a second attempt, poked at the handpiece, and was gone.
“Master Ambrosius, you said your name was?” The newly crowned king asked after dinner, when he and Ambrose had retired to a sitting room in the keep.
“Yes. I’m a diviner of sorts.” Ambrose sipped the local liqueur carefully. ”A magician.” He wasn’t, but that explanation would satisfy the locals. ”I have received dire portents about attempts against your rule by another magician, a woman. Morgan is her name.” Ambrose had just come upstream from a falling-out with her, but this man didn’t need to know that.
“A magician. Black magic or white?” The king asked cautiously.
“White, liege.” Ambrose assured him. “Divining the future. Healing. Some personal travel magic. But it has its price even so. But as Morgan aims to misuse our shared craft, and so I will be here to counter her.”
The king nodded. “What proof do you have of these claims?”
Ambrose looked past the man. “I was there when you pulled the sword from the anvil, liege. So was she. There were only a few people there. Perhaps you remember us? We foretold a great event, and had come to observe.”
“Yes. I remember now. The woman next to you was stunning. I thought it was a pity that she was your wife.”
“I trained Morgan, but she is not my wife.” Ambrose corrected. ”And she is dangerous. As much ability as I, but no restraint.”
The king nodded sagely. “I will accept your service, magician Ambrosius. But I cannot make you one of my knight. You are not of any noble family of this land, even if your homeland pedigree is good.” He frowned. “My father once kept the counsel of a woad magician, Myrlin Wyllt, his closest advisor and physician. You, master Ambrosius, will be my Myrlin. Myrlin Ambrosius.”
“As you like, your majesty.” Ambrose nodded. A title wasn’t what he was here for, but if it made King Artur feel better, he would take it.
Morgan materialized a few hours upstream and a hundred miles from Ambrose, and sat down in the middle of the cold woods to think. She could outsmart the old man, she knew - he never saw the potential of the timeslip. Artur was a menace - he was slowly killing off all the skilled warriors his land possessed on fools’ errands. He was well into middle age, and had no children - whoever survived all the “chivalrous” quests would be left to fight over the scraps when Artur died. It was a mess.
To save the people of Camelot, Morgan knew she had much work to do, but at least all of time was her playground to do it.
Well, not all of time, she realized as she started punching coordinates into her timeslip. The words “UNIT ROGUE: RTB” appeared on the handpiece in red. Ambrose apparently could do that. Dammit. Obviously, a return to the base as requested would result in nothing beneficial, so she ignored the words. It did mean she would have to avoid any time close to modern, the timeslip nets extended well back into the seventeenth century, and they’d pull her back to base for sure.
First things first, she resolved, setting the device. Let’s try this the easy way.
“Morgan, we can’t police Dark Ages warlords. Actually, as warlords goes, this guy’s not so bad.” Ambrose pointed out to his partner.
“Not so bad? You’re kidding, Ambrose.” Morgan spun on a heel and pointed to Ambrose. “We can’t sit idly by and let him destroy these people just because he had the muscles to pull apart that sculpture in the courtyard. You’ve talked to him. He’s a fool!” Morgan was pacing energetically across the stone-floored room, battling against agitation and pent-up energy. Her looks seemed to be unharmed by or even to benefit from the lack of electric lights and modern makeup.
Ambrose scratched at the two weeks of growth on his cheeks, surprised how fast his whiskers had taken advantage of their newfound freedom from razors. He knew his less impressive looks had fared worse than his junior partner’s. “He’s a hopeless romantic, and maybe a hair too trusting of old stories, but I rather like him. Had he been born 900 years from now he’d have become a famous writer or philosopher.” 400 years later still and he’d be doing what Ambrose and Morgan were doing now, for the same reasons Ambrose himself did them, but he didn’t want to say that. “Besides, it’s still not our place to police who they make their leader. Where’s that in the charter?”
“Ambrose, screw the charter. These people have bad enough lives as it is. How many of them will die in pursuit of a magic cup that doesn’t exist?” She flicked a derisive finger toward the crumpled parchment of the notice she had pulled from the town bulletin board. It called for brave men-at-arms to quest alongside the Circle of Knights in Gaul to search for the Holy Grail.
“Would you prefer he be like his predecessor, who tried to invade the next kingdom over?” Ambrose pointed out. “Look, Morgan, even if you don’t like it, we aren’t here to fix it. We’re here to look, not to touch.”
Rather than turning back toward him at the end of her pacing, Morgan hesitated, then dashed for the door.
“Dammit, Morgan.” Ambrose got up and ran out after her, but it was too late. The late fall air outside carried a whiff of ozone, and he knew she had gone. “You would be that foolish.” The new generation of ‘walkers didn’t ever seem to have any sense. History was their playground, they thought.
Ambrose, despite knowing the time was no issue, thought fast, and marked her in the timeslip grid as a rogue actor. That way she couldn’t go home without being held, and any other agents would refuse to help her. Rogues were rare, but they did happen occasionally. He just hadn’t expected it of Morgan.
“Dammit, dammit.” He continued under his breath, setting his timeslip handpiece to a date in the past. It was time to stop observing, and start damage control.
The new knight was young - maybe seventeen or eighteen, but his equipment spoke of a rich parentage. Ambrose stood behind Artur’s chair, leaning on the gnarled druidic staff Artur had given him, just watching the kid present himself. The other knights seemed to be impressed, for sure. But there was something off about him.
It had been three months for Ambrose since Morgan had lit off, and he’d been in Artur’s service about a “year”. He spent those months jumping around to try to find her. He’d foiled some minor sabotage, but mostly he cleaned up after her. She always ‘slipped away as soon as she saw he was around.
“What’s your name, sir knight?” Artur asked imperiously.
“Mordred, my liege.” The young man replied.
“From where do you hail?” Artur asked again.
“Nowhere, liege. My family’s lands in Brittany were lost three years ago.” The youth replied evenly. Ambrose noted that - not even a hint of frustration, anger, or regret over that loss. Strange. “I had hoped that through service in your court I might earn my family lands in your kingdom.”
“Who has tested this knight’s skill?” Artur asked.
“I, liege.” Gawain stood. The burly Welshman was almost seven feet tall, and towered over the newcomer. “He has much skill, but little strength of the arm. Even so, I vouch for his prowess.”
“Next to you, everyone is weak.” Artur pointed out, and the knights chuckled. Gawain smiled at the compliment. ”Sir Mordred, sit there.” Artur pointed to a seat only three away from his own. “I will have them etch your heraldry into a new chair this very night. Welcome to the Circle of Knights.”
“If I may, sir, Circles are for druids and witches.” Mordred said. Ambrose cringed - Artur was fond of his Circle.
”If that is so, young knight, what would you suggest?” Artur replied. Ambrose could tell from the tone of voice that the boy was on thin ice.
“Nothing drastic, liege, a simple change of name.” Mordred took his seat, seeming not to notice the peril of his words. “I would call this honored group the Knights of the Artur’s Table Round.”
Artur seemed to settle down. “A name change. I will consider this, sir Mordred. But now we have more pressing matters. This peasant revolt in the southern towns must be quelled, and swiftly. I suspect that the witch Morgana will be found at its root.”
Ambrose winced, but didn’t speak. Ever since he’d told Artur about Morgan, the king was seeing her influence in every nuisance and crisis. She had of course been involved once or twice, trying to get people to assassinate the king and such, but she was hardly the source of all of Camelot’s problems. Most of her subterfuge was in the past for Artur, where only Ambrose could undo it.
As Artur started giving out orders to the knights, Ambrose thought he saw Mordred glaring at him, but when he looked that way the boy was watching Artur intently. Perhaps he had a concealed dislike for Ambrose, or for magicians in general? Something to keep an eye on, for sure.
Mordred stood in his usual spot at the parapet, looking out over the town below. He knew that the kingdom was his by right, he only needed seize it from the idiot he was ashamed to call father.
“Your time will come soon, my child.” Mordred heard the familiar voice issue from behind him. He did not turn to look, because he knew eyes were on him, eyes that could not see his mother lurking there.
“My time is now, I think.” Mordred replied quietly, without moving his lips much. ”The king is in Gaul until Winter Solstice at least, and he left that dolt Lancelot in charge.”
“Lancelot is a womanizer and a fool.” Morgana whispered. ”Apply pressure, and he’s our man.” There was a rustle of cloth from Morgana’s robes as she set something down. ”This letter is signed by Gawain. It says that the king is dead. It is addressed to him, and it says that Artur spoke of you with his dying breath, recognizing you as his son. It also forgives him for sleeping with the queen.”
“False?” Mordred confirmed.
“Of course. The only person who might see through it is Ambrose. The Myrlin.” She scoffed the title, it was a joke to her.
“He has not been seen here in many years.” Mordred scoffed. “The old man probably crawled into some hole and died.”
“Make no mistake, he is still around.” Morgana corrected her son. “He is conserving his resources. Avoid him if you can. Try not to kill him if you can’t.”
“Not to kill him, mother?” Mordred asked. “He is your enemy.”
“I want him defeated, not killed. This is a time for finesse, my son, not bloodshed.”
“No.” Mordred whispered.
“What did you say to me!?” Morgana’s voice rose, building anger.
“I am going to be king. I will not be your pawn. I will kill who I please, and I will spare who I please.” Mordred’s smile vanished, then came back cruelly. “You can’t stop me.”
“You would reject all I’ve done for you!?” Morgana hissed.
“No, mother. I would do what needs to be done to realize it.” Mordred said. “I will not let your magician’s games get in the way. I will - ”
But a metallic smell drifted to him, and knew his mother was gone. Yes, she was the woman that bore him, the woman that paid for the finest tutors to look after him, to train him to be a king. But if even that family tie would keep Mordred from the throne, then it must be severed. It was his destiny to be king. He would be king.
Mordred lingered ten precise seconds, then walked away, ignoring his mother’s false letter. It was time to be King. Time to seize the moment. His way, not Morgana’s.
Ambrose appeared on the parapet, gnarled staff in hand, and saw the battlefield below, shadowed by a gloomy, overcast and smoke-tainted sky. What was left of the town was trampled to foundations and ashes, and littered with bodies. It looked fresh - hours old only. Two ragged, broken armies stood on either side of it - one in front of the gates, below him, and the other farther out. Between them, two mailed figures dueled, swords and shields ringing blows through the cold air. One of them was clearly Artur.
Ambrose was spotted in the army below, and the call went out. Belatedly, he realized that they weren’t Artur’s troops - they bore the colors of another. Black on Crimson. Mordred? He ducked in time to avoid the volley of arrows, and set his timeslip to take him back a few hours and out onto a nearby hill.
The battle was almost accidental. Artur’s army, returning early, saw the red flags on Camelot’s towers, and circled round, through the woods, right up to the town’s verge. As soon as the gate opened, they charged up toward it, not realizing that Mordred was impatiently leading his own army out to seek Artur’s force. Mordred had numbers and position, but Artur’s troops had surprise and experience.
Lancelot, still inside Camelot, had closed the gates behind the usurper, letting the armies decide who would be king. Ambrose respected that decision, though it would probably mean whoever won would exile him.
At last, the two armies drew back, and Artur and Mordred came to parley. Ambrose struggled to think of a way to even begin to roll this back. Could it be one of Morgan’s plots? And how could he even begin to unravel this one? How far back did it go?
“Yes that's me, and no, it's not.” Morgan, wearied-looking, was at Ambrose’s side. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. That’s my... my son.”
Ambrose’s guard rose, but as soon as he saw her wearied, defeated demeanour he relaxed some. “Mordred?” She didn’t look like she’d spent enough years here to raise a child to Mordred’s age. “Why, Morgan?”
“You were winning. I had to try something new.” She admitted. “But even he is against me now. Bloodthirsty.”
Below, the two men stepped back and took combat stances. Morgan gasped. “A duel! Disagreements aside, we’ve got to do something, Ambrose.”
“Morgan, you’ve done enough.” Ambrose waved his gnarled walking-stick in front of her.
“But he’s my son!” She started to claw at her timeslip. ”I have to do something!”
Ambrose waited until she was absorbed in her frantic struggle with the device, then hit her over the head with his heavy druidic staff. Morgan fell to the ground, out cold. “Sorry, Morgan. This one’s out of our hands now.” He muttered, picking her up.
Below, the fight raged on. Mordred was faster, but Artur was, even at sixty years of age, stronger and more skillful. It was an even match.
“I’m sorry, my liege. I cannot help you any longer.” Ambrose whispered as he set his own timeslip for home. He knew he wouldn’t be coming back. With one last look at the duel below, Ambrose activated the handpiece, and he and his errant junior partner vanished in a purple flash of light.
This story written based on a prompt from Klazzform's Short Story Competition on rpgcrossing.com.
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