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p11

The Galahad Factor

By

Michael Bernard

 

What started the legend, the tale of the wizard Merlin and his guardianship of the boy-king, and who was Sir Galahad? The real story began the night they crash-landed on the exile world during a surveillance mission. To save their own necks they swore to rescue the endangered Arthur and found, while trying to evade a relentless pursuit, that they were involved in something more than local politics. Too late, they realised they were the bait in a trap to expose a coup on their home world. Betrayed and abandoned, their only resources were Merlin’s staff and the abilities of a Guard, Android, Lethal Authority, Heavy Autonomous Duty.

 

Chapter One

The fox trotted warily through the faint predawn light, intent on reaching a rabbit warren before the sun rose. He tensed at the first whisper of a rushing sound, growing as if a strong wind was coming up the valley, until a small orbiter craft whistled into sight and he fled up the hillside. It bounced and skidded to a halt on the grass, and silence returned until a hatch thumped open to let a man clamber out. He stretched and looked curiously about him, taking deep breaths of the unfamiliar air.

‘That was rough! What are we going to do now?’ he asked, fright and anger loud in his voice. He did not seem to expect an answer. None came.

 

Many miles away a woman stirred restlessly from her bed.

‘You’re disturbed again. What is it this time, Wise Woman?’ her man asked. His calmness showed her behaviour was not unusual.

‘Something has happened. The … balance has altered.’ She was having trouble in expressing her foreboding. ‘There are new powers and influences at work.’

‘It will become clear in time,’ he told her, ‘and there is nothing you can do now. Come and rest.’ He was used to living with a seer.

‘As you say,’ she agreed, ‘but I think we should delay, or at least travel slowly. We have to meet someone, and I’m worried about the Fay. The influences will affect her.’

 

Walking through the hills the next day, the man from the crash landing felt exposed and very alone. He had not appreciated the difference between remote surveillance and the reality of actually being on the surface. The orbiter’s power system had started to fail soon after logging out from the space wormhole, and they had put the little transit ship down before they lost control. Now he began fully to realise the implications of being stranded here on the exile world.

Under normal circumstances he might have appreciated the scenery around him, but he had too much on his mind. Apart from the survival problems he foresaw, he worried that the disaster could jeopardise his thesis on this medieval civilisation. It had not yet occurred to him that the disaster would jeopardise his life.

First things first had to come first. They needed local clothes before they could do anything, and he was on his way to the nearest village, the one shown on their screens, to look for some. It was further than he thought, and it was almost noon when he came to the few dozen houses huddled together to make up the settlement. The smell was an unexpected and powerful surprise as he walked slowly up the dirty narrow lane. A small black pig grunted interrogatively as it eyed him from a muddy puddle before scrambling reluctantly to its feet and walking away. Two mottled ducks moved in to replace it. He looked around the relatively open space in the centre of the place and saw open stalls that passed as shops in the front rooms of a few houses. The small isolated farms passed on his way had been evidence that this was a raw world, but he had not appreciated quite how squalid it was close up.

He fingered the small lump behind his ear where his communications unit was embedded against his skull. Galahad could speak to him in silence when they used that mode, but to reply he had to talk enough to vibrate his vocal cords. He muttered a quick description of the scene back to Galahad.

‘Going ahead now. I’ll keep you up to date.’

‘Very well.’

One of the stalls seemed to have a heap of garments. He wandered over to it and stood casually leaning on his staff, pleased to have the chance to listen while the owner talked to two women. He was enormously relieved to find he could understand the conversation, but knew he would be far from fluent and his own accent very different. The women finished their leisurely transaction and looked with interest at the stranger before moving away.

The shopkeeper was keen enough to sell him rough trews and shirts, and a couple of cloaks, but was less happy to be offered a silver bracelet instead of coin. Eventually they struck a bargain, with a few copper coins returned. The shopkeeper was indifferent to his appearance and ready to chat. It seemed the local ruler was a baron whose domain covered the area and his hold was in the town of Bilster to the south.

‘Aah, proper town it is, and his keep walled and fortified, and all.’

One of the establishments on the other side of the square was a tavern, and with his confidence rising he carried his new acquisitions over there bundled in one of the cloaks. The four men sitting outside at one of the rough tables, mugs in hands, eyed him curiously as he put down his package and sat. He was thirsty and tired from the long walk, and glad to take the weight off his feet. In spite of the shopkeeper's indifference, he knew that he looked unusual. Mainly, though, he was a stranger and would be remembered for that.

One of the men wiped his mouth on a greasy sleeve, reluctantly put his mug down, and asked, ‘Yes?’

The landlord, it seemed. Unsure what to ask for, he gestured at the table before them.

‘The same as that.’

‘Ale and bread and cheese? Two coppers, then. Let's see your coin.’

The rejoinder was instant, but the man served him readily enough when given the coins. The ale was dark and bitter but refreshing, and the bread sour and coarse, while the sharp cheese was excellent. Thankfully, no one seemed interested in talking to him. As he ate and sipped he thought about their disaster. He should not have come, but hindsight was a wonderful thing and the offer of a field trip had been irresistible. How could anyone have guessed that so much would go so wrong so quickly?

He had finished his meal and was lost in his thoughts, staring into his mug, when a clatter of hooves turned all heads. Three riders entered the square and sat looking around with casual confidence. All wore studded leather jerkins and swords, while two of them had bows slung behind their shoulders and quivers of arrows at their sides. The burly leader's gaze passed over the stranger and on around the square before coming back to him. He walked his horse over close enough for it to drip foam on him as it tossed its head, while he slouched in the saddle and studied his prey unblinkingly. He let the silence lengthen, enjoying the tension. The archers with their hard blank faces and eyes of stone followed, while the few people on the other side of the square disappeared unobtrusively.

‘Who are you?’ the rider asked abruptly, his voice harsh. ‘Why are you here?’

The man had never seen a horse in the flesh before, and he found this one large and smelly, and very intimidating. The rider clearly like to be intimidating, and probably hoped his victim would take enough exception to being dripped on to cause trouble. Instead, the stranger kept a hand on the staff beside him and hoped he would not have to use it.

‘My name is Merlin,’ he said. ‘I'm a travelling scholar, and I'm just passing through.’

The rider's hard eyes narrowed a little. ‘Your speech is strange. Where do you come from?’

‘From far distant parts, beyond the sea to the east. I don't think you'd know the place.’ The last part was true enough, he thought.

The rider grunted doubtfully, not liking the implication of ignorance, but unwilling to put it to the test. ‘Do you have money or are you a beggar?’ he demanded. He swung on the landlord without waiting for an answer. ‘Has he paid for that ale and food?’

The landlord rose and spoke reluctantly. ‘Aye, he has, your honour, with coin.’

The rider gave Merlin another long evaluating stare. ‘Have you more coin, or was that all of it? Which way are you going?’