Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #18 September 2015 | Page 34

Once and
Future King

She laughed, although her concern had
changed to hurt from his rejection. “You take it so to
heart.”

By Mirren Hogan
Heat.
Stuffy, close, heavy with the odour of bodies and cold food. The smell of ale on tabletops and
breaths. In the hearth, flames shimmered, red, orange,
yellow dancers flickering to their own music. Smoke
rose and hung across the room like a shroud. It was
vaguely reminiscent of the pyres, used to burn the
bodies of the slain on the day’s battlefield.
The battle, they won, but the grief of lost
friends and the joy of grinding their enemies into the
soil of Britain kept the revelry going on from the early
evening, far into the night and on into dawn.
By the time the first of the feasters swung the
door open and staggered out to make water, Arthur’s
head had begun to pound. Sobriety, in spite of consuming several mugs of ale and two nights without
sleep had begun to take its toll.
He felt a soft hand squeeze his and smiled,
Gweneviere’s lovely face, eyes full of concern looked
back at him, drawing some of the weight from his
mind. She always had that effect, but his headache
was undiminished.
“Are you well, my lord?” she asked, her voice
soft, loud enough to only reach his ears.
“Well as I can be.” Arthur withdrew his hand,
lowering it into his lap. “Well as any man who led
three hundred men to their death.”

“How can I not?” he asked, his eyes flicking
past Gweneviere to Lancelot who sat on her other side.
He was no longer speaking or thinking of the battle,
only the rumours that had reached him of his queen
and his champion. He loved her so dearly, he could
not even ask her the truth of it, the images haunted his
sleep enough without learning she had betrayed him.
“Excuse me, my lady,” Arthur’s hands went to
the arms of his chair and he levered himself to his feet.
“I believe I shall retire for the night.”
She made to follow, but he waved her back
into her chair. “Nay, you stay and enjoy the festivities;
I would not have it spoilt for you for the sake of my
own temper.”
Gweneviere lowered herself back down and
nodded, damning herself in Arthur’s eyes with an
uncertain glance at Lancelot. For his part, the King’s
Champion merely looked amused, though he half rose
to bow before Arthur turned on his heel to leave the
room.
***
The frigid dawn air hit Arthur’s face like a
slap. He walked, hearing only the crunch of snow
beneath his boots, not knowing which way he headed
or why.
His head pounded hard like a hammer at an
anvil and he grimaced. Lights throbbed in front of his
vision. It took several blinks before he realised they
were in his eyes, not bobbing torches as he’d first
supposed. He squinted, attempting to see, to focus on
the lights.
Are these the ghosts of the defeated come for
retribution?
But the lights wouldn’t oblige, wouldn’t be

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