Epilogue 1: Rogues

Marcello found the way that the rain was pouring down to be oddly appropriate. It lent a certain ambience to the situation that seemed well deserved.

This very country was weeping for what had been lost.

The last two days had been a mad rush, one thing taking place after another so fast that he’d barely been able to catch his breath, let alone stop and think. Everything had been about reaction, about doing his best in the moment without any time to prepare, or so it had seemed.

He was well aware that he wasn’t a player in this game, he knew that he was a pawn of the immortal he had made a deal with, but he’d thought that he’d at least have had some impact on how matters unfolded. When he’d been called to fulfil his debt, he’d not thought he’d be a key figure in it, but he’d thought he would have some role, maybe as a lookout, or disabling some sort of security measure. Both were roles his skills were suited for.

Instead, he’d been reduced to the part of a tool. He hadn’t been a participant; all he’d been was what amounted to a walking carry case!

The scarred man closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the window that he’d been staring out of. The glass was cool against his skin, and he could feel the headache that had been building up start to recede. Stepping back, he turned and took in the room he was currently hiding in, as well as the other occupants.

The place itself was the dusty office of an abandoned warehouse. It sat in an unused corner of a dock on the southern coast of England, something that had just faded into the background, no longer important to anyone. In a few years, it would probably be torn down to make way for something more profitable. However, for the time being, it served their purposes.

The other occupants seemed to be undaunted by the thick layer of dust coating everything, as well as the absolute lack of any sort of furniture. The immortal he’d made a deal with had been the one to select those who’d perform her mission, and her chosen agents had been . . . unusual, to say the least. None of them had offered any of their names, and none of them had spoken to him more than had been absolutely necessary.

The apparent leader of the group was a seemingly young man, his features hidden by a hood with a cloth masking the lower half of his face. Marcello had been sceptical of him serving in such an important role, but the oddly dressed man had proven himself to be a thief of considerable skill. The scarred mage had seen him use magic and some sort of inherent powers during their mission. Both had been used with efficiency and proficiency. He’d also seemed to have a good sense of when to press on and when to pull back, his decisions having let them avoid encounters with mortal guards and even the supernatural protections they’d encountered. Why the immortal had chosen him to lead this group was fairly obvious.

The second member was a woman of about Marcello’s age, though she had paid him even less mind than the other mage had. She’d been dressed a bit more conventionally, at least once she took off the black balaclava that she’d been wearing during their task. The only word the scarred mage could think to describe her was ‘hard’. Her features might as well have been carved from granite for all the warmth there. She wore the sort of gear he’d have expected from some army agent having to sneak into a terrorist base. During their mission, she’d been the one to act when violence was needed, soundlessly killing those too much in the way, and doing it with a casualness and familiarity that sent a chill down his back.

Still, it was the last member of their group that unsettled him the most. The others were aloof, but Marcello had worked with true psychopaths in the past, even before being pulled into the world of myths and magic. He’d never liked it, but he’d had to sit down and work with the sorts of sick killers that managed to thrive in the rotten underbelly of civilization. He’d been able to stomach their twisted interests, and even turn a blind eye to those that begged to be saved from them. So, dealing with the first two members of this mission had been something he was used to. The third one though . . .

Like Marcello, the final member of the group seemed to have been brought along simply for one task, the other two treating them as little more than a mobile piece of equipment. Unlike Marcello, he had made no comment, protest, or effort to assert himself. Instead, he had remained stonily silent, almost inhumanly so. Had it not been for the sound of him breathing the scarred mage would have wondered if the final member of their group wasn’t some sort of golem or construct.

The man’s appearance didn’t help either. He was dressed in nothing except a simple black kilt about his hips. Everything else, from his face to his toes, was concealed beneath a wrapping of thick black bandages. The wrappings did little to conceal the large frame of the man though, the thick muscles of his limbs, or the thick dark brown mane that grew from his head. What they did conceal were the features of his face, even the eyes being obscured, though it didn’t seem to bother him. Ultimately, his strange dress and the even stranger way he carried himself gave him a certain inhumanity that almost made the scarred man think of the hell-driven homunculi beneath his ally’s castle.

Even as he looked at them Marcello couldn’t help feeling shocked at the situation. The four of them had done something impossible today. They should have been celebrating, or at the very least look and feel flushed with victory. Instead, they were all standing in different parts of the dusty office, watching each other warily, with no sense of accomplishment or camaraderie.

He looked down at the long cloth-wrapped bundle he held in his arms. It was clasped tightly to his body, and it would remain so for as long as he had breath in him. The immortal had told him in gruesome detail what would happen if he didn’t. He’d rather die in battle than face such a fate. Still, considering what the bundle held he could understand why she was so vehement about it.

Even wrapped as it was he could not have mistaken it for anything else. The wrapping was a creation of the immortal, a master working of alchemical creation and spell weaving into a material construct, something that had stunned him when he first saw it. Marcello knew the immortal stood at one of the pinnacles of mastery over magic, but seeing it so obviously demonstrated was something else. Still, as exceptional as the enspelled wrapping was, it was worthless compared to what it held.

He could see it in his mind’s eyes, the immaculate golden sheen, the enamelled crimson decorated with rubies, the line of tiny runes running down the inside. But beyond the mere physical appearance, there had been the feeling of its power. He’d only seen a glimpse before it had been wrapped in the cloth and that power had been hidden, but even that brief glance had been enough to sear itself into his memory.

He had seen treasures before, both the ones the immortal had tempted him with and the ones his fellow servant had gathered, but none of them came close to the majesty of the item he carried. The potency, the purity, the quality, all of them reached into a tier of being that even a deity would admire. That power had been soft and passive, but even so, it had been so strong that he’d felt his heart quail simply from being in its presence. But then again, considering what it was, was that any sort of surprise?

The nameless sheath of Excalibur. To Marcello, it had always seemed strange. Excalibur had a name, one that was known about the world, yet the sheath did not. In legend, even Merlin himself had acknowledged the sheath as being of greater value than the sword. Excalibur was a weapon that knew few peers, a blade able to carve through the invulnerable, a sword able to slay even the supposedly unkillable. The scabbard imparted immortality and near invincibility, keeping its wielder from harm and healing what little damage could be dealt. In the end, Arthur had only been defeated because the sheath had been stolen from him, and yet it had no name.

It still dizzied his mind that they had been able to get it out of Buckingham Palace, given that it was now one of the most secure locations in the entire United Kingdom, maybe even the entire European continent. After King Arthur had returned the British royal family had offered him rooms in the palace, and he had accepted. The move had been a good one, as it lent legitimacy to both the returned king and the current royal line, an action that had helped stabilize the UK during the return of the myths and legends of the world. Then, with the returned King living there, the Knights of the Round Table had set to work in turning the palace into a fortress.

And the four of them had managed to break in and steal one of the most powerful artefacts in the world from it.

Marcello dearly wished he could say that his own actions had helped in the monumental task, but the truth was that he’d done very little. In fact, the whole group had faced far fewer obstacles than he’d been expecting. From what he’d been able to glean in the few spare moments he’d had after they fled with their prize the immortal that sent them had chosen to do far more than simply trust in their ability to steal the scabbard.

No less than three supernatural events had hit Britain. All on the same day, all at the same time.

Manchester had been attacked by a pack of black hounds, beings of shadow and fire that had rampaged through its streets attacking and destroying any artificial source of light they could find. Birmingham had been infested with strange misty wraiths that clung to people and lulled them into a deep sleep they didn’t seem able to wake from. London itself had been sent into chaos as spectral horses made of water and blood rose out of the Thames and began to run amok through the city.

These disturbances explained why the palace had seemed somewhat empty when they sneaked in, but the mage was sure that there had been even more going on. Those who would normally have been there to block their entrance were instead deployed elsewhere. Still, Marcello had no idea of how the immortal had engineered events so that Arthur had been forced to depart without taking the scabbard with him. True, it had been left protected by some of the most potent defences he’d ever seen, but it was still strange that the returned king had not taken it with him.

Of course, thinking of how they had been able to steal the scabbard at all made the scarred mage turn his attention back to the bandage-wrapped figure. That one had only done one thing throughout the entire ‘heist’, and that had been to reach through the myriad of defences around the scabbard and pick it up. There were protections that should have repelled even a god, and he took the legendary artefact as easily as if it had been on a shelf in a shop.

It hurt Marcello’s head just trying to think about how much power must have been involved in that one act of picking up the sheath. Like a mouse standing next to an elephant, he’d been able to get a general idea of the sheer power of those protections, even if they were so far beyond his own abilities. This man . . . was he some sort of demigod? One with some sort of absurdly powerful magic resistance or cancelling? Neither seemed right since there hadn’t been any sense of clashing or suppressed energies. It must have been something else, but he had no clues as to what it might have been.

“Why the long face? You have aided in a theft that will become a new legend, is that not worth some good cheer?”

The scarred mage managed to keep from yelping in fear, but he wasn’t able to keep from visibly jumping at the sudden voice. Wildly whipping his head around he saw the figure of the immortal standing beside him, her stance a casual one as she glanced at him, then the other occupants of the dusty room. Of the others, only the masked man and the hard-faced woman reacted, both of them tensing as though expecting a fight to break out, then slowly relaxing, if only slightly, when they recognised the speaker. The bandage-wrapped man paid her no mind at all, as though her appearance were no more significant than the footsteps of an ant.

Before Marcello could even think of replying she was suddenly leaning close to him, her entire attention fixed upon the wrapped bundle in his arms.

“Excellent. You have followed my instructions and maintained the seal by keeping it close to your body. It would have been unfortunate if you had made some error.” She paused and glanced up at him, her face deadpan. “Cleaning up after your punishment would have been . . . tedious.”

As she spoke the air in the room became . . . thicker, oppressive. It wasn’t anything as overt as her flexing her power or manifesting it in some way. Instead, it was the simple flexing of her personality, a reflection of a will and character that had endured for longer than many of the countries that currently claimed their place in the world. All she was doing was letting down the act of being a ‘normal’ magic user. All she was doing was letting them sense just a bit of who she really was.

For just a moment the scarred mage felt fear grip his heart as he was once again reminded of just how great a gulf of power separated him from the sorceress before him, then his own will brought the emotion to heel. He might not be her equal, but he was still a magic-user, someone who had carved their own path to power through their will and discipline. More than that, by her own admission she needed him, enough that him failing to obey her orders would have inconvenienced her, if nothing else. That meant he had leverage, even if it was only slight, perhaps enough for him to sate a question that had been burning at him.

“Why me?”

The sorceress raised an eyebrow at the question, perhaps surprised that he’d been able to ask it, given her small demonstration of power. A darting glance showed that the man and the woman were both tense once more, though the bandaged member of their group remained as uncaring as before.

“Oh? What do you mean, Marcello?”

Her tone was playful, and he immediately knew that if he were to gain any answers from her it would simply be because she found it to be amusing. Or because it was somehow advancing one of her plans. Perhaps even both, there was no way to tell. Still, he wanted his answers, so he wasn’t going to be picky about how he got them.

“Why did you send me? Those two . . .” He gestured at the others, uncaring of how their glares flicked to him in response. “. . . could obviously have done the job without me. Either one of them could have held the sheath, so why did you send me along to carry it out?”

“Because only you could use it as was intended.”

For a moment Marcello could only stare at her, wondering if he had accidentally spoken aloud, or if she had somehow read his mind.

“No,” She said, her voice just as playful as before. “I do not need to read your mind, your question is clear enough, to those that have the eyes to see it. It is written across your entire form.”

The immortal paused, leaning back slightly as she studied the mage who had, perhaps foolishly, allowed himself to end up in her debt.

“Why me? Why did you send me along like this? I was superfluous, there wasn’t any need for me to be there!”

The questions were almost pleas, but the statement was spoken with just a touch of anger. It was foolish, to show any sort of discourtesy was the same as a peasant offering insult to a king, but his frustration and bewilderment at the whole situation were wearing down his self-control.

The amusement went out of the immortal’s expression as she continued to level her stare at him. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t hot, rather it was flat, detached, a reminder that to her he was nothing more than the lowliest of serfs scrabbling a meagre existence out of the dirt. It only lasted for a moment, but for that brief span, he felt his heart freeze in his chest.

Then she smiled, an amused smile of someone who had seen an animal perform some sort of entertaining feat, and he could once more feel the familiar beating in his chest.

“Oh, Marcello, I am forever wondering if you are daring or simply a fool. Still, you are interesting, so I shall indulge you in this matter.”

She reached out and tapped the wrapped scabbard with one manicured fingernail, the simple touch causing the spell designs woven into the material of the cloth to light up and glow a sapphire blue. Even though the cloth was wrapped and folded he could still see the whole thing, as though it were spreading out before him. As before Marcello was staggered by both the complexity and the power of the designs, but this time he saw something he hadn’t been able to make out before. Though the spell-work was far beyond anything he could unravel, his own skills were enough to note that there was something wrong.

Part of it was . . . missing. It wasn’t a central part, but it was a significant portion. What was even stranger was that it was clear that the blank gap in the design was deliberate. He could see where the connecting lines framed the emptiness so they could attach to something else, rather than just being cut off as if they had been erased, or just left incomplete. It was almost as incomprehensible as it was impossible. The level of skill needed to make such an empty space on so complex a design went beyond his ability to imagine! It shouldn’t even be possible. But she had done it, somehow.

What he couldn’t understand was why she had done so. This . . . this was like a painter creating a masterpiece on a par with the Mona Lisa, but doing so in bright vivid neon colours that required expert chemistry to create. It wasn’t a perfect metaphor, but he couldn’t think of anything more accurate. It just . . . didn’t make sense! Why . . . ? How . . . ? His train of thought stuttered and shook as he tried to understand what he was seeing.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“You see it, do you not? The spot where a key component is missing, a hole in the spell weave. Do you know what it means?”

The immortal’s voice was light, that of an adult trying to lead a child to a logical conclusion as part of their education.

“It . . . it shouldn’t work,” Marcello mumbled, speaking more to himself than to anyone else. “If it’s incomplete then the whole shouldn’t be able to function, it should be no more powerful than a common tablecloth. It shouldn’t be able to keep the sheath concealed, so . . .”

“And yet it does,” She broke into his thoughts, her smug smile practically audible in her voice. “At this very minute some of the greatest mages in the country are bending their efforts to locate it, knights trained by Merlin himself for a task such as this, yet they find nothing, their every effort frustrated. And as long as you keep holding it to your body they shall continue to be thwarted. What do you think that means?”

He blinked at her, his thoughts racing as he tried to reconcile what she’d said with what he knew. It shouldn’t work, yet it did, as long as he was holding it. What did that mean? Why was him holding it important? There was a chunk missing from the entire weave, how was holding it making up for-

His entire train of thought came to a screeching halt as something finally clicked into place. it must have shown on his face because the immortal allowed another pleased smile to spread across her own lips.

“It’s me . . .” Marcello said slowly. “The missing part . . . I’m filling it in, right?”

“Good, I was wondering when you would figure it out. Yes, the binding only works when it is touching your body since your lifeforce spreads to it and fills out the emptiness left in the design.”

She sounded pleased, both with herself and with him. Her eyes glittered with anticipation as she waited for him to finish working it out, to ask the question that he now suspected she wanted to answer.

“Me . . . there’s something about me that lets it work. I filled it in . . . I let it work. That’s why you wanted me on this . . . theft, so I could get it to work.”

His eyes narrowed as he continued, the question he thought she wanted coming forth easily.

“What was it? What was it about me that made it important for me to use this and carry the sheath?”

Once again, silence claimed reign over the small room as the immortal sorceress simply smiled. Behind her the scarred mage noted that the other two were moving restlessly, but as before the last member of the group was as unresponsive as a manikin.

“There is something inside you,” She explained, a certain relish in her tone. “Something hidden, something . . . dead. You shall never be able to make use of it yourself, but it is there, and it has power. Call it a relic of a bloodline, a withered and decayed remnant of something that was once so much more. Under normal circumstances, it would be useless, rare to be sure, but only worth a passing note.”

Her smile changed, gaining an edge that might well have been a match for that of Excalibur itself.

“But such lost powers were always an interest of mine. And in the centuries since I have been exiled from this world, I have needed something to keep myself entertained as I waited. My experiments were limited of course, due to a lack of subjects, but I was able to create theories and test some aspects of them. In that, I must offer my thanks to you, Marcello. You have successfully proven that my suppositions were correct.”

Her words were grateful, but that ‘successfully’ hung in his mind like a hangman’s noose. For him to be ‘successful’ meant that there had most likely been those before him that had been ‘unsuccessful’ and in the world of power and magic failing to successfully use power of any sort, especially old powers tied to your blood, tended to be . . . unforgiving. How many had been unsuccessful before him? And how sure had she been that he would be a success?

“What you have is . . . unusual,” The immortal continued. “It is nothing so simple as some forgotten spell of great power or blood-locked ritual. It is an ability to . . . reflect the power of artefacts and creatures back upon themselves. I imagine that in ages past your ancestors must have been formidable foes, able to turn the power of spells and attacks back upon themselves, neutralizing them with only the use of a tiny amount of their own reserves. I doubt that it was perfect, but it would have been the sort of advantage that would have made them legends.”

She paused for a moment, her eyes . . . unkind.

“One would wonder why there are no such legends. What could have happened to ensure that such a bloodline left no lasting record upon history? Perhaps they grew arrogant in their abilities and challenged one that wiped them out. Perhaps some being of power took note of them and chose to remove them before they could grow into a threat. I do not know.

“What I am certain of, is that the remnant within you is of use to me. Though you could never access it yourself, weaving your presence into the spell work allowed my shroud to contain the energies of the scabbard. Your power allowed my shroud to reflect those energies, cause them to cancel themselves out. As long as you hold it then it does not matter if Merlin himself were to seek it out, no hint of its power can be found.”

That explained so much, why he was here, why his job had been just one thing, why she’d been willing to part with such treasures in order to secure his service for this. If he was simply here to ensure the scabbard could not be traced by any magical means, and nothing else, then it was still a decent deal for her.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel . . . slighted. As though this wasn’t him repaying a debt, but rather him being used blatantly and carelessly.

It wasn’t a surprise. In fact, it was something that he’d been expecting. This was an immortal after all, how much possible value or worth could mortals have in her eyes, even mortals that held her interest? She’d made a show of commenting on how much she wished she could have recruited him before his patron had, but how much of that had been sincere? How much of it had been an act, something meant to stroke his ego and leave him more willing to accede to her whims?

“How did we take the scabbard? The protections on it could have held back an army, so how did we just take it?”

He knew he was skating on thin ice, but he couldn’t keep himself from asking. It was as though the self-control he normally wore like armour was fracturing, flaking away in the face of the immortal’s infuriating amusement. Knowing how this impossible theft had happened . . . somehow it was suddenly more important than just pure curiosity. It was as though by knowing he’d be able to lessen this humiliation.

“Oh? You wish to know more? How greedy of you.” Eyes deep enough to drown him narrowed, then relaxed. “Very well, I will allow you to know. Consider it an act of gratitude for your part in my plans.”

He knew this reveal was not for his benefit, she was simply showing him so he could clap for her. He was the audience that she could crow her brilliance to. It was oddly juvenile, but it was also human in a way that he hadn’t been expecting from a millennia-old sorceress.

His thoughts were cut off as she turned from him and strode over towards the bandage-wrapped member of their group. Even though it was a simple action she moved with an impossible liquid grace that put even the most accomplished dancer he’d ever seen to shame. Her passage didn’t seem to disturb the air as she moved, and not a single speck of dust was displaced by her footsteps. For a moment he felt as though she wasn’t there, that she was just a mirage, then she reached the motionless member of their group and demonstrated that she was no mere illusion.

She reached out, and delicate fingers took hold of the bandages that had been masking the figure's face. There was a tiny flash of light, and long nails, that looked as though they had been carefully manicured, were outlined in a soft silver glow. At a touch from the glowing nail’s edge, the black bandages parted as though severed by a razor edge. One after another they fell away, revealing a sight so unexpected that Marcello almost dropped the precious burden he carried.

That face . . . those features . . . he knew them. How couldn’t he? They were some of the most famous in the world, after all. Still, even as he recognized them he could also see some differences. The skin was too pallid, almost ghostly. The hair was darker than it should be and hung in limp and greasy locks about the revealed face. Eyes that should have been brown were darker, almost black, and were framed by bloodshot whites.

But for all these differences there was no mistaking the man that had just been revealed.

Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King himself!

Marcello felt his mouth open, a barrage of questions waiting on the tip of his tongue to be unleashed. But then he saw the small self-satisfied smile on the immortal’s face, and he refused to play her game one inch more than he had to. Instead, he turned his thoughts inwards, trying to deduce just what he was seeing.

This couldn’t be Arthur himself, that much was clear. But if that was the case, then who was this? The simplest explanation was that it was either a facsimile, some construct created in the king’s image, or a person who’d been reshaped to emulate him. However, neither of those would have explained how the man had been able to draw the scabbard from its protections. Those defences had been keyed to Arthur specifically, but only the simplest of them would have been fooled by mere physical similarity.

So . . . what could have disabled those defences? The way he’d just reached through them, without hesitation or caution . . .

Those defences had been meant to keep the scabbard safe from anyone. Even a god would have had to shatter them in order to reach the artefact, and even for a powerful deity, it would not have been an easy task. The only one that should have been able to reach through them was the rightful owner of the scabbard. This was a fact, as was their final member being able to reach through those protections as though they were made of air. Put that all together and it could only mean that this man didn’t simply look like Arthur, in some way he WAS Arthur.

Obviously, he wasn’t the real Arthur, given that the King had been very publicly seen in Birmingham slaying shadow hounds at the same time as the theft had been taking place. Then . . . that meant that the man standing silently before him was some sort of copy? Marcello knew of several spells that could do the equivalent of cloning, growing a copy of a living being from something like a sample of flesh, blood or the like. The problem was that such spells had limits. It was one thing to clone a mortal, it was another thing to try to make a copy of an angel or god, the power requirements were immense.

King Arthur might not be a deity, but he was an existence that was on par with them, a mortal that was only mortal in the loosest sense of the word. He possessed divine powers but had no divine blood in him. He was bound to the land in a way that was normally only possible by the most ancient and primal of deities, but he was a man. Destiny and fate bent and warped about him, yet he was a being cloaked in prophecy and legend.

A simple copy of his blood and flesh should not have been enough to pass through the scabbard’s defences. They wouldn’t have simply checked for features and blood, they would have tasted his power, the powers clinging to him, the oaths he had sworn that were binding, they might even have read his very soul.

His eyes widened as the thought occurred to him. Soul duplication? He’d heard of it during his training, but only in that it was as close to impossible as you could get. Souls were unique and powerful, that was why gods and demons held them in such value. Simply creating one was difficult in the extreme. Copying one that already existed was magnitudes more difficult. Duplicating the soul of a being like Arthur, one with power, destiny and a collection of other souls tied to it . . . that would require the combined efforts of more than a dozen powerful and skilled gods. She was brilliant, but-

“It is not soul duplication,” She interrupted his thoughts, one hand reaching up to stroke the side of the copy’s face while her eyes met its empty ones. “Do you think that I could possibly duplicate Arthur when every god and spirit to dwell in this land was unable to even wake him before his time came? My skills are great, but were I able to duplicate him so then I would be able to become the ruler of these isles, a mere dozen of him sufficient to secure that rule against even the gods themselves.”

She paused, and her caress became a grip. Marcello watched, slightly horrified, as the nails on her fingers sank into the duplicate’s skin, blood welling up about them as they drove in deeper. The scarred mage was no stranger to cruelty or even torture. He’d done things before, things that would have him locked away in any civilized society on the planet, and he could not say he regretted any of it. He’d done it for power, he’d done it to survive, and he didn’t feel guilty.

Even so, there was something very disturbing about the way the false Arthur continued to just blankly stare at the immortal, even as rivulets of blood ran down its face. There was some sort of intelligence there, some sort of awareness, but it was numb, empty, perhaps even less alive than the demon-filled homunculi that his robed associate had created. All it did was stare as its creator used her bloody grip to pull the face down to her level.

“But . . . there are different routes to one’s goal, especially if one is willing to make sacrifices.”

The creator and creation were now almost eye to eye, the immortal staring at the duplicate of the Once and Future King with an ugly intensity.

“Soul resonance, it is difficult to achieve, but flexible once you have it. Of course, it is not a simple thing to do. You need a perfectly tuned tool, a suitable opening to exploit, a strong answering force, familiarity with the soul that you hope to attune to, so many things both great and small.”

Her other hand came up, joining the first and framing the face of her creation. Unlike her first grip, this one was not cruel, and her nails simply sat upon the skin, and the contrast between one gentle hand and the other bloodstained made the sight before him all the more disturbing.

“Born of his blood and my magic, attuned to him by a shared existence. In the eyes of the world Arthur and this creation are two parts of the same whole, though the original is vastly the greater portion. Creating him so the connection would form naturally was difficult, but once the seeds were sown all that was needed was time to let them be ready for harvesting. Of course, matters were not so simple.

“The resonance was inconsistent, only fully springing forth when Arthur exerted himself. When he called upon his power that strength would ripple down the connection, allowing my creation to temporarily harmonize with him and be as one in the eyes of the world.”

She paused again, and he felt more things slide into place. All these distractions across the country, they weren’t simply to clear the palace of its defenders, they were also to push Arthur to use his strength. The creatures that had been summoned, shadow wolves, and mist horses, they weren’t powerful or strong, but they were elusive and difficult to deal with. It was like trying to swat a mosquito with a frying pan, possible, but difficult.

How much effort had Arthur been expending in not only putting them down but also in holding himself back? How free had he been with his power when trying to put down the hoards of irritating and frustrating shadow creatures? Clearly, it had been enough. Enough for this creation to harmonize with him and for just a brief time be considered to be him by the magical defences protecting his treasured scabbard.

“Yes,” She spoke, once more seeming to read his mind. “For that moment, this was Arthur. Another Arthur, the same Arthur, a part of him that stood apart.”

Her eyes turned to Marcello. Or, more specifically, the wrapped scabbard he held in his arms.

“He has served well. He has completed the task he was created for, an excellent tool.”

The scarred mage wasn’t entirely sure, but for a brief moment, he thought he saw something flicker in the eyes of the copy. It was a small thing, but amidst the blank emptiness that seemed to reside in those eyes a tiny spark of . . . satisfaction seemed to stand out like a candle in an endless void. Then it was gone, as the hand that had been gently holding his face joined the other in cruelty as its nails bit into skin.

“An excellent tool.” She repeated.

It came so fast that Marcello almost missed it. That silver glow flashed out again, spreading to cover the bandaged figure in an instant. Something flickered in those eyes again, maybe a tiny hint of surprise, then it was gone.

And so were the eyes. And the face. And the head. The duplicate’s entire form was gone, reduced to dust-like ash in an instant, the grey powder drifting to the floor with surreal gentleness.

“An excellent tool, but one that has served its purpose. Such a tool should not be left lying about, others may choose to pick it up.”

What was most unsettling was the way that her voice never changed, even as she destroyed her creation. It remained the same slightly amused tone of a teacher, even as she annihilated a being that must have cost her vast power and resources to create.

For the first time, Marcello saw a clear reaction from the other members of the group, fear. Both of them were tense, so much more so than before. Each of them had bunched muscles, ready to flee at the slightest provocation from the sorceress. It was their eyes that stood out the most though, darting around, taking in everything, looking for escape routes, even as they filled with a sort of hopelessness.

He could understand it, after all, what were they to this immortal other than tools? And she had just demonstrated just how she felt about tools that outlived their use to her. The scarred mage might have some protection from his association with his patron, but it was increasingly feeling like a thin reed to balance his life upon.

“Oh, do calm down. There is no reason to be so fearful,” Like someone who had just finished a minor task the immortal dusted off her hands as she spoke, her tone even more amused. “He was too valuable to leave where others could find him, where he might begin to develop a sense of self of his own. You are all . . . adequate for mortals, but you have little chance of becoming threats to me or my future plans. Him though . . . he could have been very troublesome.”

A shadow passed across her face, and for an instant, her beautiful features had an ugly cast to them.

“He might have sought to usurp Arthur. To try to take his place and his steal power, as if such a wretched half-formed existence could ever succeed.”

A foot kicked out at the remains, stirring the ash briefly before it fell back to the floor.

“Arthur . . . Arthur is beyond what he could be. He is beyond what most gods can be. A king tied to the Land, blessed by spirits as ancient as the very bones of these isles, born of prophecy, raised by the hand of Merlin, nurtured by Avalon into something beyond mortal. That is Arthur, one that stands upon the edge of invincibility.”

She paused, her eyes turning back to Marcello, fixing upon what he held.

“Or he used to. Now he lacks his greatest defence. He is vulnerable and shall have to be more careful.”

There was glee in her voice now. But, oddly, there was none of the malice that he had been expecting. When she said that he’d have to be careful, it wasn’t spoken as though she looked forward to his end, rather it was as though she was . . . hoping it would teach him a lesson?

The scarred mage was still trying to puzzle it out when the immortal stepped back, turning so that the remaining three members of her small band of thieves were all in her sight.

“Still, enough with these distractions. You cannot remain here for long, though my prize is concealed there are other means to find you, though my own protections are delaying them for now. In the morning you shall embark upon a vessel I have prepared for you. You shall leave for the continent. There you shall meet with agents that shall instruct you upon your next steps.”

For a moment Marcello could only stare at her in confusion.

“What? You’re not taking the scabbard now? You could have it at the other side of the world in a few seconds, why have us cart it around?”

He couldn’t help himself, he had to ask why he had to continue on this crazy venture. He’d helped steal one of the most valuable artefacts in the country, wasn’t that enough?

“Were I to take it now then it would be all too easy for many of those with power to determine who has it and where I have gone. No, you shall carry it across the sea and transport it to a location I have prepared. From there I will be able to safely bear it to a secured location where it will not be found.”

That made sense. He didn’t like it, but it made sense. It would not simply be Arthur and his allies that would be looking for the scabbard, after all. Demons, gods, spirits of all types, the numbers that would lust after an item of such power were practically beyond counting. Even if they simply intended to ransom it back to its true owner, the rewards would be enormous. Those that might have some way of using the artefact . . . they might well end up increasing their power by magnitudes! Even those who didn’t want it for themselves would be searching, if only so that they could return it to its rightful owner. This event was something akin to poking the beehive of the fragile semblance of order that the Legends had been creating since the Black Sun with a stick.

And he was currently carrying the treasure that started it all.

His eyes fell to his burden, then came up again, only to find that in that brief moment, the immortal had disappeared. For an instant, he felt panic closing in, a crushing pressure that sought to overwhelm him as the full implication of just what kind of mess he was in rose up in his mind. He closed his eyes and forced a few deep breaths until he was able to get his sudden panic under control.

Yes, he was caught in the rapids, but the boat he was caught in was not a weak one, and it was at the command of someone who was not to be underestimated. Yes, he had stolen the scabbard of King Arthur, but he had done so on the orders of one who knew what they were doing. One who would, hopefully, not cast him away after he had finished his task. One who he had to hope would set him loose once his obligations to her were finished.

It was something of a sandcastle of hopes, but at least the foundation was solid.

After all, Morgan le Fey had experience in stealing scabbards.