Sleepless Knights (19 page)

The soldiers were divided into units of ten, each unit allocated a fake dragon on which to practice. These not-to-scale models consisted of a gymnasium horse body with a cardboard box head taped to the front, into which a football
Dracontias
had been lodged beneath several towels. Small trampolines were positioned at the rear, and from these each soldier would jump onto the dragon's back, attempt to dislodge the stone, and jump down again in swift succession.

They were learning fast, which was just as well. According to a screen displaying their itinerary, ‘Operation: Hostile Takedown' would commence with the retracting of the stadium roof at six o'clock that evening. Sir Lancelot surveyed the scene, correcting technique and apportioning praise or criticism as he saw fit. “Cut, thrust, lever! Cut, thrust, lever!”
he said, his amplified voice high and clear, “Remember the principle!”

One principle unlikely to apply to battle conditions was a dragon choosing to land in front of a conveniently-placed trampoline. But this had not escaped the tutor's expert eye. “Let the dragon come to you. Show no fear, they can smell it, like a dog. When he's upon you, it's dodge or die. Then, quick as you can, get on the dragon's back. Don't let him fly too high, or you have another problem.” Sir Lancelot illustrated this understatement by pointing at a computer-generated diagram on a display screen, showing the best way to exit a plummeting dragon. This boiled down to a strategy of staying with the beast after the fatal blow, and relying on its carcass to break one's fall. I imagined Sir Gawain would have something sharp to say on this optimistic tactic, but I had yet to spot him. He was not on the platform; neither was he to be seen moving among the recruits, offering pithy advice. This was a shame, as I was hoping to have a quiet word. The high level of activity on the pitch made it impossible for me to reach Sir Lancelot on the podium without attracting the kind of attention I was still keen to avoid. Thus I remained at the ringside, cursing my uncharacteristic tardiness.

If I had only arrived an hour earlier, I could have furnished Sir Lancelot with information that would have made his recent press conference even more effective. Of course, I am talking about mere icing on the cake, for Sir Lancelot's address had been note-perfect. It was, he said, placing hand on heart, “true that several of the Knights of the Round Table have walked among you for many years. The matter of our mission has been necessarily secret, but trust me when I tell you that our work has only ever been for good.”

As to the next inevitable point, he answered the question of our immortality without revealing the existence of the Grail by a simple catch-all phrase. We had, he said, been
sustained by ‘magical means.' The persistent questioner asked him to provide a more specific definition of magic, but Sir Lancelot simply replied, to much laughter, “are dragons in the sky not magical enough for you?” This deflection provided a neat link to the Otherworld portal, which was, he said, an unfortunate side effect of our presence in the modern world, but easily dealt with. ‘Operation: Hostile Takedown' would soon have the crisis under control, thanks to the simple process of swapping guns for swords and giving the military a crash course in hand-to-claw combat.

If I was being hypercritical, the speech was deficient not in what it
did
state, but in terms of what it
did not
. As I say, Sir Lancelot could not be blamed for this. There were factors he was simply unaware of. It was, however, most unfortunate that all of these factors concerned the Master. Here I confess that my account is incomplete. Had I related the content of the press conference word-for-word, it would have rendered the above information unintelligible — for not a moment went by without yet another question about the Master:
Why is King Arthur really here? Who is he? Where is he? What is he doing in his country's hour of need? What has he done with himself all these years? Is the castle in Cardigan the legendary Camelot? If so, will we find him there? Is he intending on claiming the throne? What does he think of the current Royal Family?

If the barrage was relentless, then so was the unchangeable reply. To these questions and a hundred more like them, Sir Lancelot gave the same flat response: “No comment.” Only when he drew the proceedings to a close did he offer any elaboration. “I can't answer for King Arthur. All I will say is that I intend to put everything right. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Thank you and good day.”

Of course, I understood his reluctance to speak on the Master's behalf. He undoubtedly felt it was the Master's
right alone to address the world on the matter of his return. However, the effect of his refusal to comment was to paint the Master in a light that was far from flattering, especially when compared with Sir Lancelot's active stance. This was proved at the end of the conference, when I heard several comments to the effect that King Arthur had better show his face soon, and it was just as well one of his knights was willing to do something about all this mess. I was certain that when Sir Lancelot was brought up to speed, he would use the first available opportunity to redress the balance from the Master's perspective. But in addition to this, another matter concerned me. One that arose from the contents of his speech, and made it imperative that I talk to him as soon as possible.

I was craning my neck and searching for a way to reach him, when I happened to notice a large glass-fronted room, on the opposite side of the stadium to where I stood. Several figures were busy within, attending to a seated red-headed man. I was too far away to confirm his identity as that of Sir Gawain, but the odds were in his favour. I walked into the shadowy tunnel leading back to the lower levels, and, when I was confident nobody was watching, teleported over.

 

The people in the glass-fronted room were so wrapped up in their own activities that I was able to enter unchallenged. The room was a studio, of the kind where interviews are conducted with sporting stars and relayed by television cameras to the viewing public. These cameras were in operation now, and in a smaller ante-room off to the back, a group of men and women attended to a bank of monitors, shouting instructions into microphones as various images appeared on their screens. Most of these pictures featured the figure in the main studio, who was indeed Sir Gawain.

At present he was engaged in a tussle with a young man attempting to replace his hip flask with a bottle of water, while a girl applied powder to his forehead with darting dabs of her brush. Another man was directing the cameras, which were all trained upon the seated knight. “Positions, everybody,” said this fellow. The attendants stepped away from Sir Gawain. A screen lit up directly in front of him, displaying a script that moved from the bottom to the top.

I stepped into the ante-room, the better to observe Sir Gawain, as from my current position I could only see him in profile. He shifted uncomfortably under the bright studio lights, peering at the scrolling words.

“Quiet please,” said the director. “We're live in five, four, three…”

Music blared from the speakers, and an unseen voice spoke in solemn tones. “Emergency Broadcast, live on all channels!” The words were accompanied by a sequence of images, and I saw that the problem had already spread beyond Wales. One picture showed dragons against the London skyline, picking up cars in their talons and flinging them at the face of Big Ben like bowling balls. No doubt there would soon be similar scenes in towns and cities all over the world.

Sir Gawain was also captivated by these images, and it came as something of a shock to him when his own face appeared on the screen. He jumped, then saw himself jump, and realised that he was staring at the wrong camera. He quickly gathered his wits, clearing his throat with a violent cough. His obvious nerves, coupled with the fact that he was not a natural reader, gave his voice the parrot-fashion of a child forced to recite poetry against his will. “Good. Evening. Ahm Sir Gawain. Of King. Arthur's court in this time of notional —
national
crisis, we… need men of courage to step…” The camera zoomed in on his face. Drops of sweat beaded his brow. He licked his lips, took a swig of what was now mineral water, grimaced and spat it out. “Step forward, and, ah, answer their…” Panic filled the booth as the technicians considered cutting to more footage. The director made it clear by means of several wild hand gestures that they should do no such thing.

It pained me to see Sir Gawain such a prisoner of his nerves, and I was considering what I could do about it when he suddenly got to his feet. “Ah, sod this Churchill shite. Listen up, and listen good! Think you got what it takes to take down a dragon? With nothing but your bare hands and a sword to stop your head getting snapped off?” At this, the screen showed the dragon I had disposed of in the River Taff, with Sir Gawain stood on top of its floating corpse, waving his sword triumphantly at the cameras. The film cut back to
the studio. “Well, do yer? Then shift your arse to Cardiff's Millennium Stadium, and we'll see if yer balls are up to the job, won't we just?” With that, he tore off his microphone and stomped off-camera. The screen then filled with pictures of Sir Lancelot training his troops, and the relevant contact details. “Lancelot Needs You!” said the voice over.

“Eh?” cut in Sir Gawain, returning to position. But the cameras had stopped rolling. Sir Gawain grabbed the director by the lapels. “What's the deal? You told me you wanted
me
for this!”

“We do, we do,” stammered the director. “You're perfect! If you'd just put me down a moment —”

“Then why're you plastering his squashy nose all over the shop?”

I deemed this an opportune moment to make my presence known.

“Ah, Lucas! Did you see all that, then?”

“I did, Sir Gawain.” He put down the director and pulled me to one side in conspiratorial conference.

“I thought of telling 'em you killed that dragon, but I figured it'd be less confusing to let 'em think it was me, y'know? Save you the bother.”

“Most considerate of you, Sir Gawain.”

“Who are
you
?” said the director. If he was grateful for my timely intervention, he hid it well.

“Sir Lucas the butler, at your service,” I replied, with perhaps a smidgeon less sincerity than is my custom.

“
Sir
? You mean you're one of them? Why didn't you say so! Megan! We've got another one!”

This Megan was a striking woman in early middle age with long black hair, a pale complexion and an air of self-importance. “Megan Carter, Media-Military Liaison.” She extended a hand.

Sir Gawain turned to her with a snarl. “Lucsy's goin' nowhere with you lot.” He manoeuvred me out of the studio and into the stadium, over to a row of seats some distance away from the booth. I held down one of the folding chairs for Sir Gawain, and sat beside him.

“I am glad of the chance to finally talk with you, Sir Gawain. Sir Lancelot seems highly preoccupied.”

“Yeah, right. It's a full time job, poncing around.”

“I am afraid I bring bad tidings of Sir Perceval and Sir Pellinore.”

“Feared as much. We had no time for a look-see on the cliffs when we took after them dragons.”

“Sir Perceval and the Grail appear to have passed into the Otherworld, but that is not to say they are beyond hope. Sir Perceval has returned from there twice before, after all. I have every confidence that with the Grail by his side, he will do so again. Sir Pellinore's fate, however, is less rosy. The Questing Beast has turned his mind.”

“When has it ever not?”

“Indeed, but this time I fear for his welfare.”

“I'd love to help, Luc, I really would, but —”

“There is more, Sir Gawain. I have urgent information for you and Sir Lancelot, concerning the Otherworld portal. If Merlin's prophecies are correct, what we have seen so far is just the beginning.”

“How d'ya mean?”

“Opening the portal and summoning Merlin has set in motion a train of events that will progressively worsen as time goes by.”

“How much worse?”

“The next stage is characterised by the ominous description that ‘the dead will rise.' ”

Sir Gawain whistled. “And what then?”

“The return of Morgan Le Fay and the end of the world. But with your help, it will not come to that. We all need to reunite and combine our efforts. We need to find Merlin.”

“Fat chance of that.”

“Be that as it may, we must try. To that end I was hoping you and Sir Lancelot would accompany me back to Camelot to join the Master.”

“No can do. I'm needed here. You just saw my recruitment speech.”

“Yes, and I must say I am surprised the modern military think it wise to enlist civilians.”

“Dunno about wise, but they reckon they're gonna need 'em. They're suffering losses to dragons all over the shop. There's chaos on the streets since it all kicked off, lootin' and shootin' left, right and centre. The
TV
people are happy to help, as long as they can broadcast the whole thing. I'm fronting it; or at least I
was
, 'til Sir Posealot stuck his lance in.”

“Is there any way I can talk to Sir Lancelot?”

Sir Gawain considered the matter. “You leave all that with me.”

“Thank you, Sir Gawain, but I would rather convey the details concerning the Merlin prophecy myself.”

“No, no, no, you don't wanna worry him with that while he's training. He'll get the message alright. I'll make sure of it.”

“Very well. Find me as soon as you have spoken to him,” I said.

“Aye, I will. Look out,” said Sir Gawain. The woman called Megan, not to be deterred, was heading towards us from the direction of the booth. “I've had a gut-full of that lot. Stall her, Lucas,” he said, and before I could protest Sir Gawain had made a swift escape down to the pitch.