"The Last Battle" by Audrey A. Nichols

The stream, cold and quick, raced its way to Mor Havren. Trees surrounding the glen stood out against the morning shadows. Five thousand men were coming to life, each breathing white clouds. Horses nickered at their pickets, awaiting grain and the coming battle. Bonfires began to smoke, as spits were set into place. On these one could find beef, venison, and pork.

A hill rose up in the midst of the morning panic. Atop it, two mounted men surveyed those bustling around them. One was obviously of tall height and broad shoulder. He held himself with the easy grace of a warrior. A chain mail shirt began below his neck and ended above his knees; underneath this, he wore a simple shirt of rough weave. His trousers were yellow and black checked, his boots tough leather. Belted to his waist and resting in its sheath was the feared sword Excalibur. His shield hung in its loop on his saddle. His skin was tanned from spending days aback a horse. Though his long blond hair was brushed, it still maintained the wild appearance. On his forehead was a gold circlet and riding at the base of his throat was a torque of gold. Its two bear heads smoothly touched noses; their ruby eyes glistened in the morning light. His eyes were as clear and blue as the stream, but a sad smile played on his handsome lips.

His companion was drawn into his deep blue cloak. Its hood was drawn up around his head, warding off the chill wind. The cloak itself was a masterpiece. It was etched in an uncharacteristic wolf skin. The cloak was fastened to his shoulder by a large stag brooch. Barely visible was a torque of beaten gold, much heavier and older than his companion’s. From his sword belt hung a pouch. None knew its contents, save the owner. His trousers were blue and black checked; they came to an abrupt stop at the tops of his knee-length boots. Tucked into the right boot top was a silver dagger. His hair stuck out from under the hood in a jet braid. His skin was paler than his companion’s, though they both spent the same amount of time out of doors. He was more handsome, more graceful. He was taller, slender, appeared younger. But what was most chilling, what offset his entire visage, were his eyes. They were a clear gold, a warm color. They were like that of a hawk, or a wolf. But they were cold. They could peer into the depths of the soul, or the future even.

Arthur, Pendragon of Britain, never felt that cold. But he did feel weary. He was tired of fighting. He was tired of chasing. He voiced these thoughts to his advisor.

The Britain’s Druid didn’t answer straightway, as most might. When he spoke, it was in even, quiet tones. "Oh?"

"Yes, ‘oh!’" The young King’s anger suddenly flared. "Four years, Merlin! Four years! We have watched our comrades fall, we have watched the enemy grow fatter. Four years! We are tired. They need more than a day’s rest between battles." Merlin’s gaze silenced him.

"Are they the ones that are tired, Arthur? Or is it you?" A battle waged in the bard’s mind. Arthur, bound for greatness, could be so stubborn. To say too much would be then to end a short reign.

"Yes, I am tired of it all. Every night, I wish that I had never clapped eyes on you!" Merlin’s head jerked at him. Pure rage radiated from him, but Arthur was oblivious.

"Never clapped eyes on me? Indeed, if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be in this mess! And neither would Britain! No, instead I would have gone to my grave, blissfully ignorant to the knowledge that I’m not the only one. Men, women, and children would be cut down where they stood, if that lucky. Britain, instead of being inhabited by Britains, would become the home of that howling bunch of Saxon, Pict, and Scots!" Dead silence hung between them. "Never say it." They both looked at the sea of humans around them.

"Merlin," Arthur began in a subdued voice, "why?" He answered almost before the question left Arthur’s lips.

"Because this world is troubled beyond belief. Her people kill each other just to see them bleed. Disease wages wars more devastating than what you or I could ever imagine." He paused. His next words were strong, as if he were reciting a treasured poem. "I see a place where war exists not, where children are allowed to play, and to scoff at forgotten enemies. Where men find no shame in helping one another. Where there is no sickness and war is a thing of the past. You were born to lead Britain to Avalon, Arthur. That is why."

Arthur stared at him. He had heard the dream thousands of times, but never like this. Now he was a desperate man, victory seemed too distant. "Ah, yes, Merlin. That same tired dream. When will it become real, become physical? When will we get to see this Avalon? We can’t fight much longer. We are losing men and the spirit it takes to inflame them. We aren’t boys any more, listening to a bard spin his tales." He looked down. Two men, one with red hair, the other with brown, had just stepped from a tent. They were stretching and already joking with passing men. He pointed. "There are Cai and Bedywr." Merlin looked but said nothing. "Will you uphold us?" It was an ancient question that every Celt leader asked of his bard before entering battle.

"With all that is in me." Arthur laughed, though it sounded forced.

"Then we shall not fail, Merlin! I go to raise spirits!" He moved his white mount down the hill. Immediately, a crowd gathered around his outstretched hands. Merlin did not move until he heard his first words.

"Brothers! Today we fight the remaining horde! Today we fight to teach them the consequence of attacking a man’s home!" The cheers were deafening. Merlin smiled before wheeling his mount in the opposite direction. Even if the King of Britain was in doubt, he would not allow his men to wallow in it. Merlin disappeared into the wood at a walk.

He rode north, soundless, for a mile, keeping the stream to his right. Suddenly, he heard a buzz, followed by the thud of an arrow burying itself into a tree. He smiled in spite of himself and dismounted. A figure cloaked in green and brown sloshed up the stream from behind him. Tall as he, but more slender, the sex of the archer was confirmed when silvery peals of laughter cascaded around him. She wriggled into his outstretched arms. He held her back to see how she had aged in the last twenty years.

Galatia was Atlantean, as he was. They both escaped the cataclysm that destroyed Atlantis long ago. She was known in Britain as the Seeress of Lost Atlantis, though some referred to her as the Lady of the Lake. Galatia had the strange ability to see into the minds and hearts of others, as well as the wandering paths of the future. She was cold, as he was, to the selfish Britons. Her skin was milk white, her eyes were crystalline green, and her hair was a rich auburn. It tied back into a long, though loose, braid. The mere sight of her made Merlin’s heart quiver. Though their visits together were short and infrequent, they spent what they could of it in each other’s embrace. After a deep kiss, he pulled away, forcing himself not to drown in her scent of pine and spring. He smiled. "You are late."

"Your messenger got lost in his cups." She quipped in an accent that he had forced himself to lose long ago. Her demeanor changed. She was now stiff and uncaring. An image of her standing before a sacrifice in a temple flashed through his mind. Wearing a black robe marked with the signs of the heavens, she held a dagger high above her head. A cold grin played on her lips. Silver flashed as the dagger swept closer to the victim’s heart… "Do not do that," it was a whisper with the underlying tones of command. Merlin guiltily glanced down at the dagger in his boot. She had given it to him at Beltane. He almost had a complete vision of something he had lost. He could easily see her as a high priestess for some pagan god or goddess. "Why did you seek me out?" Galatia wandered the world at a will. Few knew where she could be found; fewer still dared to find her.

"I rarely ask anything of you, but I must know. How will the battle fare?" He watched as anger raced through her body.

"Why is this battle more important that any of the others?" She taunted him, daring him to challenge her.

"Something is not right, Galatia. I look into the fire and black water, but I do not see anything." He would not reveal the real reason for calling her to him. Arthur was afraid. The dreams of Avalon were fading for him and the men. Though he could see shades of the future, Galatia’s vision was pure and untainted.

"You have never feared for yourself, Merlin." Her rich voice was biting. "Always for Arthur, always for Avalon! You will go to your grave with that ridiculous dream on your lips!" She was shaking in rage. He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away from him. To see her thus pained him more than words could give an account. She sighed, subduing or taking another route of persuasion. "Have I ever refused you anything, love?" He shook his head. "It is not too late. You can leave Arthur and come to me. We could have the world at our feet…" Again, he shook his head. "Have it your way!"

She reached out and gently took hold of his hand. Together, they sank to the wet stones beneath their feet. Galatia closed her eyes, her perfect brow furrowed in concentration. Merlin closed his as well. The images came to him from her almost immediately.

Galatia rocked back on her heels. Her hair was damp with cold sweat and her breathing was labored. Merlin looked up at her, a confused expression on his face. "What happened?"

"You saw the battle." She stood and helped him to his feet.

"No. What happened to Arthur? Did he fall?" Try as he might, he could not keep the rising knot in his stomach down. When Galatia spoke next, it was in a barely audible whisper, but Merlin heard it clearly as if she were shouting at him.

"Cai died midway through the battle. Bedywr lived and will go mad. You fell from exhaustion."

"Arthur, Galatia, tell me of Arthur."

"Bedywr lived and will go mad." She repeated. The meaning did not hit him until he nearly yelled at her. Bedywr had been racing to get to Arthur’s side. Of Arthur’s commanders, Cai and Bedywr were closest to him; they had grown up together. The loss of one would drive the others insane. If he made it too late… Merlin began to shake his head violently.

"No! Arthur will not die! Avalon cannot die!" He threw back his head and screamed. Galatia held him to her, providing what comfort she could.

"No, Merlin." She said at last. "Arthur will not die. This is just a glimpse at what may happen. You alone have the power to change it." He looked at her, fitfully wiping a tear from his face. He nodded and swung up into his saddle.

"Avalon will not die this day!" He thundered off, leaving Galatia staring after him.

She stood there until he was nothing more than a fading sound. She did not tell him that only a few things could be changed in the future. She didn’t tell him that the battle would be as foretold. "I tried to tell you that Arthur would be the death of you, love." She sighed. "We weren’t meant for this world anyway. God be with you, Merlin. Hold my place at your side in the next life." Galatia, Seeress of Lost Atlantis, walked back into the unforgiving world, taking her unshed tears with her.