Crowning Achievements

PROLOGUE

A RTHUR!

The harsh cry scared the chickens and jerked Arthur from his daydream. Arthur’s family was so poor he could not afford to hold onto dreams, but he had rented one for the afternoon. In the dream he was a great warrior living in a massive castle. Unfortunately, the experience was ruined when his mother’s voice sent the chickens running this way and that way. Many forgot that they could not fly. They bumped into the walls and clawed at Arthur. Within seconds, the inside of the chicken coop was filled with a snowstorm of itchy feathers. Arthur got up off his bed and blindly scrambled for the door. He made it, somehow, and burst outside looking like a bad case of dandruff. Shaking the feathers off his hair, he ran across the yard towards the dark hut, where the voice was calling.

ARTHUR! GET IN HERE NOW!

His mother was waiting inside. She was a big, sweaty woman with a face that had never known a smile except over someone else’s misfortune. Her black teeth smelled like rotten sprouts. She was sitting on a large chair that groaned under her weight, stuffing her mouth with slices of potato from a bag on her lap. She didn’t offer Arthur any food, as the potatoes were only for herself, though he had picked them from the fields.

Where were you?

I’ve been in my room, he said. His room was technically the chicken coop. He shared it with thirty chickens and a family of field mice. He had lived there since he was three.

This morning the village boys went raiding, she said. They were seen robbing old ladies, stealing food from babies and breaking into unguarded huts. They made a huge mess. She glared at him. Where were you, Arthur?

I was by the stream, reading, Mum.

"I know that, she said. That’s the problem. You were reading. That’s not something a boy of mine should be doing. We don’t have no readers in your family. Reading is for posh people. You can forget that stuff right now. It’s about time you started acting like a member of this family. I wish you were more like your cousin. He’s always raiding villages. One day he could be a great warlord feared by everyone. Why can’t you be more like him?"

His cousin was the leader of a gang at the age of nine. He was well-known for his cunning, ambition and ruthlessness ... all things Arthur lacked.

He likes making enemies, Arthur said. I like making friends ...

Friends, she snarled. You mean like that thick kid you used to hang out with? What was his name?

His name was Lancelot. He wasn’t thick, Mom – a dragon bashed him on the head when he was a baby.

He fell down a well because he reached down thinking his reflection was someone stuck down it. That’s thick, Arthur. He would have drowned if you hadn’t made the mistake of rescuing him. All I can say is I’m glad he was taken away by the Dragon Slayer Academy. A bit of soldiering will do him some good – like get him killed.

Mum!

Don’t you ‘Mum’ me. I’m so disappointed with you. You never join in with the other boys when they’re doing bad things. You don’t steal. You don’t mug. You don’t swear. What’s wrong with you, boy? Don’t you want to be a criminal when you grow up?

I don’t know, he said. I just don’t like hurting people, Mom. I like being nice to people.

Nice? Don’t use that four-letter word in my home. I’m telling you, you’d better buck up your ideas, Arthur. Your cousin and his gang are going to raid another village this afternoon. You’d better join the gang. I want you to steal me something good for dinner. And I want to see someone else’s blood on your knuckles when you get back.

But Mom –

Get going, she ordered. Be bad.

ARTHUR WAS SEVEN WHEN he met Merlin for the first time.

Like all important things, it started with an accident.

Arthur was trudging across the dark hills and valleys outside the village of Bogwold. He was carrying an empty bucket that made his arms ache. Looking back, Arthur could see the wooden huts as a brown smudge on the far hills. Facing forwards, he could see thick woods at the edge of the trail and hear birdsong and the rustle of water. Though the woods looked beautiful, they were an especially dangerous place. Every year dozens of villagers died in ambushes. Arthur was in the untamed land where wolves, brigands and monsters roamed. Whenever he saw a skull or human bone in the grass beside the trail, he felt his heart beat faster. Some of the bones belonged to children. It was almost noon and he was on his way to the river, following the well-worn path made by hundreds of travellers before him. The river was over ten miles away from home. But he had to walk by the woods because the river was on the other side.

Arthur had been sent by the other children to fetch smooth round stones from the riverbank as punishment for some crime or other that he had refused to commit. He had to collect an entire bucket of stones. The other children would use the stones to play a game called marbles. The game involved them drawing a chalk circle on the ground around Arthur and throwing the stones at him. Points were scored by direct hits to his head. Bonuses were awarded for obtaining a screech or a knock out. The game was so popular sometimes adults would join in.

Watching the woods, Arthur thought about his life.

It sucked.

It sucked big time.

He half-wished something big, fat and hairy would burst from the woods with the intent of killing him.

That would solve his problems.

It would save him from another stoning.

All the Bogwold villagers did not like him, but chief among them was his own mother. There had been subtle clues since his birth, like his own mother making him sleep with the pigs until he was big enough to climb out of the pen. And then she had made him sleep in the yard with the chickens and goats. Until he was five, Arthur had believed his name was Getlost or Scram. His mother blamed him for her poverty because until he was born she made a decent living as a courtesan at the court of King Uther Pendragon. Arthur’s birth had ruined her thin body, turning her into a potato-like figure. She’d found herself having to do the unthinkable – working on her feet. It was all Arthur’s fault, he knew. She was forever telling him this. Look at me, she would say, as she tucked her teeth into a leg of roasted mutton dripping with grease, you made me this fat, you little punk. His mother was very accurate with her marbles. But she did care for his welfare. After all, she was always encouraging him to talk to strangers.

Already, Arthur’s scrawny arms hurt at the shoulders and elbows from holding the bucket. He did not know how he would manage when it was heavier. He would not be allowed home until the bucket was filled. As he continued along the winding path, he wondered if it would be better to collect thousands of extremely small stones or just a few big ones. He was thinking of damage limitation, for his bruises looked like squashed cherries on his small body. There had to be something he could do. Maybe he could invent a new game – something that did not involve violence. What if everyone kicked a pig’s bladder around with the aim of kicking it through some wooden posts? A game like that would never lead to violence. He started thinking so hard he was not looking where he was going.

Turning a corner, he crashed into a bearded man wearing black robes walking the opposite direction. They both went sprawling into the undergrowth. Arthur scrambled to his feet, apologising. But the man grabbed Arthur by the back of his tunic and dragged him into the sunlight, where he dropped him as though he weighed no more than a leaf. He was a tall man with dark eyes and black hair. He held a short black stick in one hand with a white tip. It was too short to be a walking stick. The stranger plucked strands of grass out of his beard, frowning at him.

How dare you touch a warlock!

Sorry, Arthur said, looking sad. I never touched your warlocks.

Is that a joke?

What’s a joke? We can’t afford jokes in my village.

Do you know who I am, child?

Arthur shook his head.

I am the illustrious Merlin.

The name meant nothing to Arthur.

I am King Uther Pendragon’s advisor and sorcerer.

That meant nothing, either.

Well, Merlin said. I was his advisor and sorcerer until this morning. Now I’m unemployed.

What happened?

He died.

How?

It’s none of your business, Merlin answered sharply.

Oh, Arthur said. Was it your fault?

No.

Then why are you leaving?

It’s ... Never you mind, little runt.

MERLIN DUSTED HIMSELF down and was about to fry the child with a fireball when he caught upon an idea. He leafed through the first edition of Wizards & Sorcerers’ Monthly and read the front cover story about a sword stuck in a stone. There was a competition running to see if anyone could pull it out. Any mortal who could pull the sword out would be the next king.

Can I go now? asked the boy. Please! I need to collect some stones in my bucket.

How old are you, boy?

Seven.

Seven. The lucky number. What were the chances of that happening? Merlin thought of the possibilities. If he let this young boy pull the sword from the stone then it would give him much needed credibility in the Wizards’ Association after his failure with Uther Pendragon. He could make this boy a king. The child looked so naïve Merlin could run the country almost by himself, which was what he preferred. Wizards always needed ingredients to make potions and a king could supply them through taxes.

Boy, would you like to be king?

Arthur gasped. He’d never been asked a question in the whole of his life that was not about manure or serving his peers. But I’m just a humble, weak child doomed to a poor education and a life unemployed.

Merlin hated realists, but nevertheless that could be changed. Boy, I’m going to make you king.

How can you do that? I am not of direct descendant to the throne, nor am I part of the corrupt aristocracy that suppresses the workers. You know it is inherited unfairly?

A communist! thought Merlin. He’d soon change that, too.

Listen, kid, if I say you can be king simply by pulling a sword from a stone that is what will happen. This is the Dark Ages. Any old rubbish works.

But nobody would believe that!

Yes, they will.

No, that’s ridiculous.

Are you going to argue with me? You just walked into me and now you’re complaining when I say you can be king?

I’m sorry. It’s just so unreal. Like something in a book.

Put down that bucket and come with me, ordered Merlin.

Remembering his mother’s advice about strangers, he followed Merlin.

They walked for hours in a direction Arthur had never gone before – towards the castle of Uther Pendragon.

It was the largest building Arthur had ever seen. It was made of white stone, with vast towers and spires reaching up to the sky. Soldiers in gleaming silver armour guarded the gates allowing merchants to go in and out with carts laden with goods. The castle had a deep moat around it of deep blue water. The castle was accessible by a bridge.

You live there? Arthur asked Merlin.

I was kicked out when Uther bought the farm.

What farm?

When he died. It’s an expression.

Arthur looked blank.

I am really going to have to give you some education, child.

They stopped before they reached the moat. I will need to disguise myself before we go inside. I’m not exactly welcome under the circumstances. Do not use my name in front of the guards. Call me Dad.

What’s a Dad?

You don’t know?

Arthur shook his head.

I suppose you couldn’t afford one either.

Arthur nodded. He watched as the strange man spoke some words in an ancient language that made the air around him shimmer. Suddenly Merlin was dressed in the bright clothes of a merchant.

How did you do that?

Thousands of years of practice.

Arthur and Merlin walked into the castle and stopped in the square, which had at its centre a large crowd. A sword protruded from a mound of granite in the shadows of the keep.

Roll up! Roll up! Try your luck with the sword Excalibur! See if you can be king! Only five groats for a try!

Rows and rows of people tried one after the other to pull the sword loose. They had nothing else to do with their time, having no hobbies. First in line was a priest of some kind, pulling the sword until his face was purple and his arms an inch longer. But no amount of prayers and Pagan ranting could move the sword. Next was a beefy strongman. He could not make it budge. He went away with groin strain and five groats poorer.

Arthur had second thoughts. Loads of people who would laugh at him when he failed to pull the sword. He’d be picked on even more by the villagers. Perhaps that was why the wizard had brought him there, to humiliate him in a public place. Maybe the wizard was a friend of his mother.

Er, Dad, it can’t be done.

Nonsense. Just join the queue and I will perform my magic. Though Merlin’s rhetoric sounded confident, he was not so sure. It was a long time since he done any magic stronger than pulling hats out of rabbits - a grisly but effective trick. His magic had failed to resurrect Uther Pendragon despite all his efforts. Could he do it? Beneath his silk robes, he flicked through his spell book, finding the standard pulling-the-sword-from-stone runes under the heading funny things to do with rocks. He squinted at the small symbols and wondered what they meant. His rune reading was a little rusty. It looked very hard to read. He needed a new pair of eyes.

Here’s five groats, he said to Arthur. Don’t waste them.

Arthur slipped closer to the front of the queue, his diminutive status making him invisible to the brawny adults. It would soon be his turn.

Everyone before him failed.

Next, said the organiser of the challenge.

Arthur handed over Merlin’s money.

Merlin noticed a couple of new merchants with teenage sons. His powers let him see through the disguises – the merchants were wizards coming to the castle with the same purpose. The teenagers were their apprentices.

Merlin and Arthur would only have once chance with the sword.

Arthur stepped forward and was greeted by laughter and sarcasm. It was like being in the Eurovision song contest and winning. He grimaced and grabbed Excalibur’s hilt - which was cold to the touch, colder than the rock, colder than ice, colder than the stares of the crowd. His hands wanted to release it, but his head refused. The sword had to move. Had to. In his mind’s eye the sword began to move. Reality opposed it. The cold, the ice, the magic invested in the blade, all rebelled against the motion.

It was not going anywhere.

Dad, he said. I can’t move it!

I’m here, son. Just keep trying.

Merlin chanted the spell and hoped he had the pronunciation correct. His whole career depended on it. He closed his eyes and pictured the magic in his blood as it flowed from him into the boy. The boy was a natural conduit for it. Almost as though he had been born for this moment. Merlin was taken back by a sudden realisation. He had been born for it! He knew who Arthur’s father was. The dead king. Uther Pendragon.

Arthur was his son.

Great time to find that out, Merlin thought. He dearly hoped he was not making a huge mistake, but it was too late. His magic had entered the boy now. He could not take it back.

Magic time.

Suddenly Excalibur’s hilt sparkled and then the entire blade ignited to a brilliance that poured forth from the rock, steam bursting from the stone.

Arthur held on as the sword cut and cracked rock. It was hot in his hands. He pulled with all his might. The blade arced loose with a hiss of molten rock. Arthur held up Excalibur and pointed it at the sky. He could feel the power of the sword. The sword shone in the sunlight like a waterfall, the light growing and growing.

The crowd dropped to their knees, amazed.

For the first time in his life, Arthur did not feel like a loser. Not a total loser, anyway. Arthur and the sword glowed. The brilliance peaked with a flash of lightning that shot from the blade towards the sky. The sky lit with a thousand sparks that broke as sheet lightning. Thunder rumbled across the hills. Then there was silence. The light dimmed, returning the world to normal. Except for one thing - the sword was free and the boy Arthur was king.

Even Merlin was impressed.

He didn’t have a clue what trouble he’d created.

He would find out soon.

PART ONE

Twenty-five long years later, Merlin was in the throne room with King Arthur.

"I don’t want a round table," King Arthur said.

Merlin silently counted to ten, hoping to achieve inner calm. He failed. He could feel the magic bubbling in his blood. He looked at the king and wondered why he had chosen this loser among the many losers available. During his sixty-year reign, Uther Pendragon had sired many children to many women, but Arthur had been the first born.

Merlin stamped his feet, making the marble floor crack, the walls shake, and the ceiling drop a shower of dust. That caught the king’s attention.

Sneezing, Arthur shook the dust from his head. Still no, Merlin.

Merlin tried to control his temper by raising his eyes to the ceiling despondently. They snapped back in place when he stared at the king. "But, Honourable Highness, you have to have a round table. It is Legend."

The king self-consciously rubbed his dusty hair and walked towards Merlin, man and wizard taking a moment to look at the rectangular table.

I can’t see what’s wrong with it, myself.

The wizard shook his head and sighed. He wished the world could do without kings and queens and popes and system analysts. Things would be much simpler if he could rule. But the Wizard’s Association forbid direct interference in human affairs. Immortality was so unfair.

It is the wrong shape, sire.

Arthur regarded him coolly as he approached the table. He touched the oak surface affectionately and ran his fingers along its length, feeling the corners one by one, before returning to Merlin’s side.

But I like this one. It has character.

The table was the centrepiece of the Great Hall, where formal dinners and meetings were going to be held, once the king found some friends. Its appearance was of prime importance. And, Arthur sheepishly reminded himself, the table had been part of Queen Guinevere’s dowry. Are you listening to me? I don’t want a round table!

But -

No, Merlin. Round’s so... so square.

Merlin’s entire face contorted with a giant nervous twitch. When his mouth finally resumed its normal sneer, he produced from his robes a copy of Wizards and Sorcerers’ Monthly, the swimsuit issue. "Page 17 - under the article ‘Problems with drooping wands’ - says you have to have a round table. I can’t emphasise it enough, even with italics."

No, said the king.

Again Merlin twitched. He would try one more time and that would be the last. He had experienced many things during his wanderings in the past and future, styles of government and ways of thinking totally alien to the Dark Age man in front of him. How could he express things in words the human could understand? A round table is very democratic, sire.

Democratic? Arthur spat the word as if it was boiling hot. What does that mean?

Merlin sighed. Sometimes he wished he had stayed out of politics and pursued something simpler, like quantum mechanics. Democracy ... let me see how I can explain it to you in terms a king like you can understand ...

Merlin lectured for half an hour on the merits and reasons for democracy, keeping his words under two syllables.

Arthur, having listened to the impassioned logic and philosophy, naturally replied: That’s stupid.

Stupid? Merlin spluttered. How can you say that?

Because how can I possibly sit at the end of a round table, huh?

You’re not meant to with a round table, sire. A round table allows everyone to be equal. Did you not understand a word of what I have just said?

There was a knock at the double doors. Arthur grinned and looked at Merlin with mock sorrow. Looks like we’ll have to continue this argument some other day. Like never.

Merlin gave up, discarding his copy of Wizards and Sorcerers’ Monthly into the fires of hell with a flick of his flaming fingers. "Sire, you’ll regret not having a round table, but I am only a humble warlock with hundreds of thousands of years experience and you are a king with thirty-two. I could not possibly know what’s good for you."

Precisely, Merlin. You have to do what I say.

"That was