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  They talked for an hour, covering the general parameters of what Sandoval would say. Once the tape was completed, one of their people would bring it to the standard news drop. It was a regular drop-off spot that had been arranged between Sandoval’s people and a reporter for CNN. Sandoval found it endlessly amusing that a major news organization would willingly act as a shill for the supposedly hated and feared terrorists. It made him realize that, for all their rhetoric and great discussion of the immense evil that Sandoval supposedly represented, the world nevertheless found him incredibly fascinating and couldn’t wait to see what he had to say next.

  Once fully satisfied with all that he had to say on their next presentation, Sandoval placed himself in front of the video camera while the Mule adjusted it as best he could, considering the dim lighting conditions within which they had to work. “This is the longest that I can recall that we weren’t being shelled by someone or other,” commented the Mule. “It certainly makes it easier to concentrate.”

  “Perhaps they’ve realized the futility of it,” replied Sandoval. “Their intelligence information is so piss-poor, they haven’t even come close to hitting us.” Then Sandoval noticed that Gregor was sullenly going about connecting the lights to provide as much illumination as possible. “Gregor . . . you have something to say?”

  Gregor merely shrugged. “I am . . . suspicious, that’s all. Suspicious of any ‘gift’ to us, even if it’s something as simple as quiet for a time.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing. I’m saying—”

  But Sandoval walked toward him, feeling a faint buzz of warning in the back of his head. “Are you suggesting that they’ve stopped shelling because some other form of attack is about to be made?”

  Again Gregor shrugged. “I could not say.”

  The Mule waved dismissively. “The Americans have not yet committed to any sort of ground attack, and every other regional army knows better than to try and engage us in these caves. We have three hundred men at strategic locations, unassailable themselves, and easily able to pick off any intruders. We need not worry about anything.”

  Sandoval nodded, realizing that everything the Mule was saying was the truth, and he had been foolish to consider even for a moment that any sort of danger could possibly be at hand.

  The simple fact was that they had won a great victory. Sandoval wondered if he hadn’t lost the ability to appreciate such a thing. Perhaps in some ways he had become too battered down in his ongoing struggle for . . .

  For what?

  He stared at his own image in the monitor and pondered, not for the first time, what was the purpose of it all. His people remained scattered throughout four different countries, repressed and without rights in all of them, and a homeland had yet to be offered by any country. He knew that his cause was a just one. The scriptures of the prophets had been clear on his destiny. Oh, yes, there had been spirited discussion as to whether he was indeed the Favored One, he who had been selected by God to lead his people to a place of security, of safety. But he did not doubt it, not for a moment. The signs were all clear, the details of his birth meshed with what was known of the Favored One. His destiny was assured, his reason for being indisputable. There was no question at all that he would, in time, win. The “how” of it might be in dispute, but the result was immutable.

  Still . . . in this place where day and night blended together, the passing of the sun in the sky meaningless as they dwelt in darkness . . . sometimes he would wonder and would doubt. And then, as quickly as he could, he would shove those doubts aside, for they benefited no one.

  The lights abruptly flickered. They looked around in confusion, and then they straightened themselves out. “Are we ready?” demanded Sandoval, beginning to feel not only a bit impatient, but sorry that he’d dramatically poured out the wine.

  The Mule gave him a confident nod, and his other lieutenants stood around with their arms folded, watching and smiling. They always loved when he did this. He cleared his throat and said, with utter calm, “The American President has fled from the scene of battle like the coward that he is. But I am still here. And the terrorism will continue—”

  “Perhaps. But not with you.”

  The unexpected voice startled them so completely that Sandoval—whose full concentration had been upon the camera lens—jumped half out of his chair, banging his knees on the underside of the desk. The others in the cavern whirled to face the newcomer, and were collectively dumbfounded to see a raven-tressed, gray-clad woman with piercing green eyes staring at them.

  Sandoval wasn’t sure why, but the temperature in the cave suddenly seemed to drop. The Mule was so distracted that he neglected to turn off the video camera.

  “Who are you?” demanded Sandoval.

  She smiled, and it seemed even colder. “I am for you, Arnim Sandoval. For you and your associates.” She moved with an almost casual sinuousness. “I am the one who comes in the night and slinks in the day. I am the one who knows, and laughs at that awareness. I am the one with gaze of stone and blood of ice, and none speak of my heart, for I’ve none to speak of.”

  They had no idea what she was talking about, but they didn’t have to comprehend her to have their sidearms out and pointed at her. She took in the weapons with one sweeping glance and seemed more amused by them than anything.

  “How did you get in here?” Sandoval said. He was still standing behind his desk, and for no reason that he could articulate, felt some degree of comfort in the fact that he had a large, obstructive object between them.

  “I go where I wish.”

  “I have men guarding all the entrances.”

  She shook her head, the black hair framing her face. “Not anymore.”

  The temperature dropped further still, and Sandoval felt chilled to the bone. He suddenly had an urge to relieve his bladder, and it was all he could do to hold it. When he spoke again, it was with less vehemence than he’d used before. “What do you mean?”

  “I killed them.” She approached them with long, leisurely strides, and the men backed up but kept their guns leveled upon her. “One by one, or sometimes two or even three at a time. Very quiet. Shhhh,” and she brought her finger to her lips. “Wouldn’t have wanted to disturb anyone.”

  Gregor was looking at the total absence of weapons upon her. The gray shirt and pants she wore were so tight that they almost appeared to be a second skin. Clearly she was hiding nothing. “Oh, really,” he said skeptically. “You killed three hundred men.”

  “I don’t know. I lost count.”

  “I see. And how, exactly, did you kill them?”

  “Like this.”

  She seemed to make a very slight move with her right arm. It should have meant nothing; she was still a good four feet away from them. At most, there appeared to be a quick blur in the air, nothing more.

  And Gregor staggered back, blood fountaining down the front of his shirt. His mouth moved powerlessly, but no words came out. Instead it was nothing but short, stunted gasps that no one would have been able to hear unless they were standing right there.

  Before anyone could react, the woman took a quick step forward, bringing her within striking distance of two other men. Her arms blurred once more, and still it seemed as if her targets were too far away to fall victim to her, and yet down they went. They dropped their weapons, clutching at their throats, their faces going dead white as their lives drained down the front of their chests and onto the floor. They had called themselves Brothers in Blood, and never had it been so accurate as now, with their blood freely flowing into one another, the floor becoming thick and dark crimson.

  The Mule took a step back and opened fire on the woman. His gun spat out bullets in rapid succession, and almost every one of them hit home. She staggered slightly from the impact of each one, but the smile never left her face. “Is this how you treat a guest?” she asked, sounding slightly put out.

  Horrified, uncomprehending, the Mule backed up an
d banged into the video camera as he did so, knocking the entire tripod mount to the ground. The camera spun as it went down and landed at an angle. Both the Mule and the advancing woman were now within range of its lens.

  Sandoval, paralyzed, glanced at the monitor. What he saw there caused him to scream for the first time in several years. And that time, it had been a scream of pure mourning. This was pure terror.

  He heard a ripping sound, the sound of flesh being torn away and something liquid spurting like a faucet knocked off a sink, and he looked back just in time to see the Mule’s head thump thump thump across the floor, an expression of permanent surprise etched on his features. Flecks of blood had spattered onto the woman’s face and her tongue darted across it. He looked back at the monitor, convinced that he was losing his mind. On the monitor the tongue was forked, the face nothing human, but the eyes were still that poisonous green.

  She caught where his glance was going. “You like to watch television,” she said with what sounded like dawning comprehension. “So much violence these days. Let’s see what else is on.” She shoved the camera over, and it slid up against the Mule’s arm, outstretched from his fallen body. The upper half of Sandoval’s body was clearly visible.

  “What . . . what . . .” The words came out barely a whisper, his voice choked by the constricting vocal cords. He still had his gun in his hand, but had forgotten it was there.

  “What am I?” she said helpfully. “Well, at least you’re asking better questions now. ‘What’ rather than ‘who.’ But the question that’s more important at the moment, Arnim Sandoval, is . . . what are you?” She smiled mirthlessly. “Would you care to find out?”

  He tried to shake his head, but was paralyzed by her green-eyed gaze, and then something seemed to thrust into his very being, to bisect his brain, to devour his soul, and he saw everything that he was and would never be. A warm, yellowish stain seeped over the front of his pants, his bladder finally giving way. He didn’t even notice. He could barely stand up, his legs were trembling so violently.

  “You think you know terror?” she asked him. “You can’t even begin to comprehend the word. Let me show you,” and she stabbed forward, her body elongating, and Sandoval threw his hands over his head and screamed, but there were none left to hear him.

  THE VIDEO CREATES a sensation. There is huge dispute as to its factual content, for the images that appear upon it are simply too insane to be believed. Some sort of gargantuan snake—an anaconda, some speculate—swallowing Arnim Sandoval whole. This is, of course, preposterous. There are no snakes of any size whatsoever in all of Trans-Sabal or any of the surrounding regions, much less something that grotesquely huge. Yet there it is, for all to see, on video released on CNN with commentary from clearly astounded newscasters who obviously can’t believe what they’re witnessing.

  Not since Abraham Zapruder decided to film a home movie of John F. Kennedy’s motorcade through Dealey Plaza is any visual record so subject to intense scrutiny. The original video is made available to the most sophisticated digitizing labs in the country, who study it over and over and over again. The reason they keep studying it is because they keep coming up with the same, impossible results every time they do so: What is being displayed on the tape is absolutely authentic. The great dictum of Sherlock Holmes is bandied about almost routinely on evening news shows, namely that once the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth. And the truth is that every expert on digital analysis is ready to swear on a stack of Bibles that the tape is genuine, and furthermore each expert is perfectly capable of producing reams of laboratory studies to back that up.

  Further backup is obtained when ground forces sweep into an array of caves that is believed a possible hiding place of Sandoval’s people, only to find the place filled with bodies. Bodies literally by the carload, and blood everywhere. The place reeks of decaying corpses, and when word of this state of affairs spreads, that is all that is needed to begin a massive, global hailing to whatever divine providence has delivered Americans—and every other democratic people—from the terrorist grip of Arnim Sandoval.

  Is Sandoval’s the only terrorist organization that presented a threat to the world? Naturally not. But it is the largest, and the best organized, and Sandoval had certainly been one of the most charismatic leaders of them all. Furthermore, although there is no way to prove it, the nature of Sandoval’s obvious demise gives pause to even the most rabid of terrorist leaders. This is not simply a man being shot, or crushed by bombs from overhead, or dying in any sort of remotely normal situation. No, this is a man who is consumed by a great beast of a creature. It has the spark of divine intercession about it. The political pundits even suggest that Satan himself, represented as in days of old by the great serpent, has materialized on earth to claim Sandoval for one of his own.

  Arthur Penn considers it a mildly entertaining notion, and watches the spread of this theory on religious talk shows. And he nods in silent approval as talk of war dissipates like sugar in hot water. With the most prominent enemy dead—with spiritual restitution taken out of the hide of Arnim Sandoval—there is no point.

  Of every being who walks and crawls and breathes on the face of the Earth, only Arthur Penn knows the truth. He tells no one. Who is there to tell? Ron? Best he not know the unholy deal to which Arthur agreed for the sake of his wife. Nellie? She still remains oblivious of Arthur’s true background, and there’s no reason to change that state of affairs. Merlin? He’s solid rock. Percival . . . ?

  Arthur sits and stares at the unmoving body of his wife. He listens to the steady beep of the monitors. Sunlight that she will likely never see again filters through the window, dancing upon her upturned face, and garnering no reaction.

  “Percival,” he says out loud, wondering where in the world his last and greatest knight could possibly have gotten off to.

  But he does not dwell on it. He sees no point in doing so.

  He sees no point in much of anything anymore.

  Gwen’s breathing remains regular and regulated, and Arthur finds himself wishing that all the years of immortality could catch up with him in one, great burst of chronological impossibility. That the years would wash over him like a mighty tidal wave, and once they surge away from him, there is nothing left except foam and air.

  It does not happen.

  Time stretches. People’s attention spans remain, as always, short. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and while Terrance Stockwell does an excellent job as President, the public does what it does best.

  It forgets.

  PARTE THE SECOND:

  Swords

  CHAPTRE THE FOURTEENTH

  IN TIMES PAST, when Percival had been imprisoned for various offenses, he had kept a running, crude calendar charting the length of his incarceration. He had not been inspired to do so this time, however. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had foregone this slightly sour tradition. He could only think that it was because—on some level—he didn’t want to dwell on the length of an incarceration that might be permanent.

  So instead he passed his days in occasional conversation with Gilgamesh, eating, sleeping, relieving himself, and pulling.

  The discourse with the High King invariably ended in exactly the same manner, even though the conversations themselves would range over an array of topics. Sooner or later, Gilgamesh would demand undying fealty from Percival, Percival would tell him where to shove it, and that would be that for the rest of the day. Sometimes a week or more would pass, depending upon how anatomically insulting Percival had been, before Gilgamesh would show up again for another talk.

  The food they gave him was minimal in its quality. It didn’t matter to him all that much. He was effectively immortal, after all. So his body only needed the most meager of rations in order to survive, and the remarkable healing ability provided him by the holy waters of the Grail centuries ago did the rest. Still, an occasional filet mignon might have been nice, but he
wasn’t expecting such a treat to be forthcoming.

  And the rest of the time, he pulled on the great ring attached to the door, which never seemed to give any indication of noticing any of his efforts. That did not deter him, though. He was a knight of the Round Table, and though Camelot might be long gone and the table smashed to splinters, he possessed an admirable single-mindedness that had served him well in the past and—ideally—would continue to do so in the future.

  Because time had lost meaning to him, Percival was unaware of the fact that it was precisely the eighth minute of the eighth hour of the eighth day of the eighth month of his captivity when the great welded ring, and the door to which it was attached, began to give way. The numerology of the moment wouldn’t have meant a damn thing to him even if he had known. All he cared about was results.

  He’d been yanking on the ring in the exact same manner that he’d always been, and so couldn’t believe it for a moment when this time—as opposed to the futility that had greeted his earlier efforts—the door suddenly began to buckle. It happened with no warning at all, but Percival instantly capitalized on the unexpected boon. His foot braced against the wall, a sudden surge of energy and strength vaulting through his limbs, Percival gritted his teeth and pulled harder, ever harder, his heart racing with anticipation.

  From down the hall he suddenly heard a guard’s voice call, “Hey! What’s going on in there?” in response to the creaking of the door, and Percival felt a brief rush of panic. If his constant pressure on the door all these months had actually brought it to the brink of collapse, and he was caught out, they’d simply tie him down or chain him up while they replaced it . . . and he would be right back where he started.

  But the panic, rather than shattering his concentration, instead focused it like a laser, and Percival put every last remaining dram of strength into his actions. All his frustration, all his anger, all the fury that he felt at the ages-old High King for keeping him imprisoned in this manner, all of it telescoped down for him and converged upon this one single obstruction.