Part 7

Morgan le Fay stood at a table in the royal study, hunched over a large globe of translucent crystal. Waving a hand over its surface, she whispered ancient words and peered intently at the mystic seeing stone. Gradually, a faint, distorted image began to appear in the crystal, slowly but surely coming into focus. The sorceress spoke faster, increasing the volume and intensity of her spell. Nearby, Sir Mordred sat in a tattered easy chair, bored out of his mind. He thumbed through an old book with indifference.

At last, the image on the glassy surface became clear. It was the face of an attractive woman with long, brown hair. Her facial features were similar to Morgan’s and a golden crown sat upon her head. The woman cocked her head to the side and leaned closer as if watching the sorceress through a window pane.

“Morgan,” the face said in surprise. “Well, this is unexpected. I didn’t think these old seeing stones still worked.”

“Hullo, Elaine,” Morgan greeted her. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, my sister,” the face on the stone answered. The image was that of Queen Elaine of Garlot, the youngest of King Arthur’s half-sisters. “I assume this isn’t a social call. To what do I owe your presence?”

“Why, Elaine,” Morgan said, feigning offense, “you cut me to the quick! Can a sibling not check in on her dearest kin?”

“I know you better than that,” Elaine remarked. “Come now, out with it. What is it that you want? I already told Morgause that I have no interest in this foolish war of yours.”

“I am not the fool here,” Morgan said darkly. “Does the murder of our father still mean nothing to you?”

“Duke Gorlois is many years gone. And his killer, King Uther, lies moldering in the ground as well,” Elaine reminded her. “Do you still insist on blaming Arthur for the sins of his father and the theft of our supposed birthright? We have had this debate many a time, sister.”

Morgan checked her anger and tried to compose herself. “Forgive me. I forget myself at times. I did not contact you to renew old arguments.”

“Oh? And why did you contact me?”

“We have not seen each other in so long,” said Morgan, adopting a lighter tone “How do you fare? I hear it is lovely in Garlot this time of year.”

“It’s the rainy season,” Elaine said flatly, still mistrustful.

“And what of your darling children? Galeshin was knighted recently, yes? And your daughter, little Elaine…she must be what, fifteen, sixteen now?”

“Seventeen this month,” Elaine told her. She arched an eyebrow suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“Seventeen! Good gracious! I’ll bet she’s quite the heartbreaker,” Morgan exclaimed. “Any handsome lads in her life? I trust she has…kept her virtue?”

Elaine stared at her sister curiously before suddenly catching on. “So that’s it,” she gasped. “You need a maiden for one of your rituals. Morgan, I will not have my daughter involved in your madness!”

Morgan lost her calm at once, flying into a rage. “Madness?! Will you still call it madness if the gods of our people are forgotten? If women are reduced to domestic servitude in the Christ-god’s patriarchy? That is the world that Arthur—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Elaine muttered. “Learn a new song, my sister. The House of Garlot will not aid you in destroying Arthur. And you will not corrupt my daughter.”

The image leaned to the side as Elaine tried to gaze over Morgan’s shoulder. “Speaking of the corrupted…hullo, Mordred.”

Mordred looked up from the aged tome in his lap. “Hullo, Auntie Elaine.”

“Lured you into her schemes, has she?”

“I’m going to be king,” the young man declared with pride.

“Of course you are,” Elaine said doubtfully. “Do me a favor, dear ones, and forget this talk of treason and regicide. For your own sakes. Now…how does one turn this blasted thing off?”

Morgan let loose a banshee-like shriek and grabbed the seeing stone, flinging it violently at the floor. The crystal ball shattered into dozens of tiny pieces.

Blinking in surprise, Sir Mordred looked down at the pile of crystal shards. “I’m not cleaning that up,” he said.

* * * *

When Tom returned, his fellow Leaguers were ill at ease about working with Princess Morvydd. Though her kindness seemed genuine, she was, after all, Morgan’s kin. Her true loyalties were a mystery and some of the homunculi feared betrayal. That said, none of them relished the thought of fighting Morgan themselves. An ally who knew sorcery would be of great value.

“It’s decided then,” Tom announced. “We will help her.” He had already slipped back under the door to tell the princess before the group had had a chance to continue the debate.

Freeing Morvydd from her cell proved to be simpler than the League anticipated. Unlike an earlier adventure where they risked life and limb (not to mention digestion) to retrieve a dungeon key, no such extremes were needed this time. Castle Malagant was in such disrepair that the lock on Morvydd’s door was old and rusted. ‘Lina held Issun under his arms and flew the two of them up to pick the lock with his katana blade. Moments later, the door swung open and the towering beauty stepped out.

At floor level, Thumbling quickly darted away from the princess’ immense feet as she walked into the hall. Unaccustomed to three-inch-tall partners, Morvydd was not watching where she stepped. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the glowing winged figure that was hovering before her. Wide-eyed with wonder, she reached forth and snatched Thumbelina out of the air.

“A faerie!” Morvydd cried excitedly. “Gods above, I wondered if they were real!” Her powerful fist squeezed the tiny woman in its grasp, leaving only her head, shoulders, and the tips of her wings visible. Still held in ‘Lina’s arms, Issun was completely enveloped by Morvydd’s enormous hand. He found himself sandwiched between ‘Lina’s body and the smooth surface of the giant princess’ palm. Little light filtered through her fingers and he feared he would be smeared into jelly if her grip did not relax.

“Gently! Gently, your highness!” Tom called from his perch on Morvydd’s shoulder. “You’ll crush them!”

“Them?” said Morvydd curiously. She tilted her hand upward and opened her fingers, allowing ‘Lina to settle in her palm. At last, she spotted the inch-tall Issun, now lying sprawled on top of Thumbelina’s stomach. Morvydd gasped in surprise and plucked him up between thumb and forefinger, holding the tiny warrior in front of her eye. Issun-boshi could only stare at his reflection in the wide green iris before him.

“Oh, how precious!” Morvydd cooed, her voice booming in the samurai’s ears. “He’s even smaller than you, Sir Thomas! I shall have to be very careful with you, my wee gigelorum. I so much as breathe wrong and I could inhale thee!”

Morvydd took a distracted step forward, causing Thumbling to scurry and leap away from her royal slippers once again. A giant foot crashed to the floor a few inches behind him, the displaced air shooting the little man away like a leaf.

Tom called out another desperate warning. “My lady, mind your step! Our company has one more member!”

Morvydd looked down at her feet and laughed at the sight of Thumbling lying face down in a heap. She bent down to scoop him up as well but quickly realized that her hands were full. Seeking somewhere to place one of her catches, the princess smiled with mischief and began to lower Issun towards the neckline of her gown. As her colossal curves loomed closer and closer to the frightened mite, Morvydd suddenly stopped and reconsidered.

“Better not,” she muttered. “I could lose you in there. We’d have to send in a search party!” The princess giggled at the thought, imagining tiny knights and hunting hounds clambering over the cliffs and valleys of her bosom, seeking the imperiled Issun.

Instead, she lowered her other hand and stuffed Thumbelina down the front of her dress. The tiny woman struggled futilely, submerged head-first in the narrow depression between Morvydd’s breasts. As she fought and kicked, sparkly faerie dust was scattered over the young lady’s chest. Satisfied, the princess reached down and grabbed Thumbling with her free hand. Watching this spectacle, Tom could only cover his face and shake his head wearily.

“Oh no, Sir Thomas! A horrible monster is gobbling up your faerie friend!” Morvydd said, indicating ‘Lina’s position in her cleavage. “You must save her!”

The mischievous young woman gave a sudden shrug of her shoulder, sending Tom hurtling forward to slide down her collar bone and chest. Tom crashed into ‘Lina’s upended legs, his added weight pushing her further down into the hollow of flesh. He wrapped his arms about these flailing limbs to prevent him from tumbling off the giantess’ front. Ever chivalrous, Tom looked away and pulled the hem of ‘Lina’s dress back up so that her shapely legs and frilly undergarments were covered. High above, Morvydd laughed at their plight, causing her bosom to shake and quiver below them.

“Your highness, this is all very amusing,” Tom called as soon as the quake subsided. “But should we not focus on the task at hand? Stopping your mother and cousin?”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose so,” Morvydd agreed. She set Thumbling on one shoulder and scooped Tom up to perch him on the other. Carefully, she placed Issun inside her right ear, fearing for his footing on her slippery shoulder amid the strong drafts of the castle. Reluctantly, she glanced down at Thumbelina, who had—with some effort—righted herself to peer up out of the gap of cleavage.

“Are you comfortable in there, little sprite?” asked the princess. “I’m running out of places to put people so that will have to do. Now, everyone hold on tight! Here we go!”

As Morvydd made for the long winding staircase to the castle’s ground floor, Thumbelina gave a heavy sigh. This was going to be a bumpy ride.

* * * *

Morgan paced back and forth through the castle’s main hall. “Think, blast it!” she raged, though whether at Mordred or herself none could say. “Where else can we find a maiden?”

“What about that friend of yours, the Queen of Northgalis?” Sir Mordred suggested. “She dabbles in the mystic arts, right? Has she any daughters?”

“Only sons,” Morgan sighed.

“The Queen of the Wasteland?” offered Mordred. “She always seems to have a few spare damsels hanging around.”

“That pious bore?” Morgan scoffed. “Do you honestly think she’d lend us a Grail-Maiden for a pagan rite? Where’s your head, nephew?”

“I’m just throwing out ideas here.”

“Your kingship is at stake here!” she reminded him.

By this point, Mordred was beginning to feel a bit put out. “Look, just because your daughter turned out to be a slattern, there’s no need to get snippy with me!”

“We’re so close! So close!” the sorceress cried, wringing her hands. ”Revenge on Arthur is within my grasp! The gods themselves would be on our side in the coming battle once you are married to the queen and bound to the land, Mordred. If I could just complete the ritual!”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Mother.” Morvydd had appeared quite suddenly at the base of the stairwell, catching the duo by surprise.

Morgan went wide-eyed but soon noticed the tiny figures dotted about her daughter’s person. “How did you—of course. The League. Arthur’s little spies. I should have stomped those rodents when I had the chance.”

Mordred wrinkled his nose when he saw the tiny homunculi. “Ewww. Cousin, you’re infested!”

“What you’re doing is wrong and I can’t stand by any longer,” Morvydd insisted, though her voice was noticeably cracking. “I will stop you.”

“Think you so, daughter?” Morgan challenged. “You’re no match for me. I have dedicated my life to the Goddess’ arts and mastery of the elements. But very well, let’s see how much of your training you remember.”

Both women assumed a battle-ready pose but neither made a move to physically attack the other. Instead, they gestured forward with their hands and recited incantations in the Old Brythonic language of their ancestors. With little more than a thought, Morgan loosed a searing fireball from her fingertips and sent it hurtling towards Morvydd. Though shaken, the princess called out a counter-spell. With a wave of her hand, the fireball dissolved into a shower of harmless rose petals.

Undeterred, Morgan continued her assault. Each object she gestured at levitated into the air and was flung at the younger woman. The entire hall was Morgan’s arsenal. Books, silverware, candelabras, sculptures, and even pieces of the room’s stonework sprang to life and were launched at the princess. Most she was able to deflect with well-placed sweeps of her hands, telekinetically altering their path. But the objects simply returned and began to swarm around her like a cyclone. More and more, the improvised weapons slipped past Morvydd’s defenses, striking her body and eliciting cries of pain and surprise.

As the mystic battle intensified, Issun fought to maintain his position in the princess’ ear each time her head shot back and forth. Ignoring her pride, ‘Lina ducked down into the girl’s bodice for shelter. Tom and Thumbling clambered onto the back of Morvydd’s neck, seeking refuge behind a curtain of raven locks. When this proved insufficient, they darted around the slender throat to slide down into her gown as well, landing in a heap beside ‘Lina.

Sir Mordred, meanwhile, watched his relatives’ duel with a wicked joy. He clapped for each blow struck and laughed at Morvydd’s ineffectual attempts to counter them. Born of incest and forged by the hate of his family’s rivalry, the lad found few things as entertaining as kin-strife.

While the princess continued to fend off the dancing objects, Morgan simply strolled forward with ease and confidence. Her daughter was too focused on the inanimate army battering her to keep an eye on her opponent. With a sigh of disappointment, Morgan muttered another spell and lightning shot from her fingertips, flowing into Morvydd’s body. The girl screamed in agony and collapsed to the ground, almost crushing the Leaguers under her weight.

Morgan le Fay stood over her fallen enemy. But triumph mixed with sadness as she saw the sorry state she had put her daughter in. Pity swelled in her chest as the sorceress knelt beside her and stroked the girl’s hair.

“That was for your own good, child,” said the enchantress. “You cannot see it now but I fight this war for you. Arthur’s Christian kingdom would make slaves of all women and throw down the true gods of this land. That is not the world I want my children to inherit. Now please…hand over the little spies so we can end this foolishness.”

With a gasp, Morvydd clutched her arms about her chest protectively, shielding the League. This motion almost squashed the tiny heroes between her breasts but they appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

“I’m not playing, Morvydd,” Morgan insisted, more forcefully this time. “Give them to me. You can’t hide them forever.” Morgan’s patience was quickly wearing thin and her legendary anger could not be held back for long. “Give them to me at once, you willful brat, or I swear by the Goddess, I’ll pry them free and feed them to you one by one!”

Mordred had just pulled up a chair for a front row seat of this spectacle when the doors of the great hall burst open. A powerful wind swept into the castle, sending a chill through all assembled. Once this passed, a pair of figures stood in the doorway, primed for battle. Nimue and Pelleas strode into the hall.

“Morgan! Cease this madness!” the High Priestess of Avalon declared. The chain of her iron manacles had at last been sliced in half by Pelleas’ sword.

Morgan looked up from her crouched posture at Morvydd’s side. “Nimue…” the sorceress growled low in her throat like a wildcat. She stood up and approached this newcomer, all thoughts of her daughter and the League forgotten.

“How I have dreamed of this moment,” said Morgan. “I should have been Lady of the Lake, not you! I was Viviane’s greatest student! Why she chose you as her successor, I will never know.”

“Your lust for revenge blinds you, Morgan,” Nimue stated. “You would make war on an entire religion and bring Avalon and all of Britain down with you! Viviane knew this, though it pained her to see you fall so far. She could not leave the Isle of Apples in your command.”

“So she left it to you?!” Morgan raged. “A spineless weakling? Avalon recedes into the mists. Its gods and its wisdom are all but vanished from the Earth! Job well done, Nimue. You have doomed our holy order.”

“Better to fade gracefully than bring further bloodshed to this land,” Nimue returned.

“Well, at least you did one thing right,” conceded Morgan. “You got rid of that pompous meddler Merlin for me.” Nimue shut her eyes for a moment and breathed in sharply, stung by Morgan’s words.

“I’m sorry,” Mordred interrupted suddenly, “but are you two going to fight or simply talk each other to death?”

Morgan smiled broadly, green tendrils of energy snaking from her fingers. “Come, Nimue. Let’s not disappoint the boy.”

At once, the two sorceresses launched into mystical combat, a tumultuous wizard’s duel. Fire and ice, lightning and thunder, and energies of every shade and hue filled the chamber. The earth rumbled and the skies cracked. Animating spirits were summoned to imbue the objects around them, creating two armies of debris and bric-a-brac to wage a deathless war. Nimue and Morgan screamed shrill spells at one another in Old Brythonic, Latin, and the lost tongue of the Pretani Hill-Folk. From across the hall, they assaulted each other with magicks, drawing ever nearer in a slow but determined advance.

Fearing for their lives, Morvydd, Mordred, and Pelleas fled the chamber, seeking sanctuary. The League was bounced violently in the princess’ bodice as she ran but it was better than the alternative. Slipping from Morvydd’s ear, Issun-boshi clung tightly to her earlobe for dear life as she escaped.

Sir Mordred peered cautiously around the doorway after he and the others darted into an adjoining room. He could only stare, agog, at the supernatural warfare raging a few paces away.

“Gods almighty, would you look at that?!” he said breathlessly. “Now that’s what I call magic!”

“They’ll tear down the castle!” Sir Pelleas cried.

“I know,” the younger man answered. “Isn’t it wondrous?”

Morgan and Nimue had at last drawn closer to one another, beams of white light blasting from their hands to collide in the space between the two combatants. “You’re…stronger than I…remembered, Nimue,” Morgan struggled to say.

“I have the Merlin’s power…in me now,” Nimue said. “It is he that you face…as surely as me, Morgan.”

“Then I’ll destroy you both!” the queen of sorceresses snarled.

“No, Morgan,” answered Nimue. “I don’t think you shall.” She called out another spell and lifted a hand, redirecting the burst of light. Like a glowing serpent, it weaved about the chamber, striking the stonework all around the hall.

“Sweet Jesu, she does mean to tear the castle down!” Pelleas exclaimed. “Nimue, my love, what are you doing?!”

Issun called into the darkness of Morvydd’s ear canal. “Princess, you must make them stop before we all perish!” The startled girl jumped, having forgotten he was in there.

However, she recognized the incantation. “Everyone relax. The castle is safe. Just wait for it…”

Indeed, the structure of the building remained intact as the beams of light struck. The walls, ceiling, and floor glowed faintly and the air shimmered but there was no immediate effect. With one hand occupied by this new spell, Nimue could no longer hold back Morgan’s assault. A bolt of energy struck her hard in the stomach and sent the woman flying backwards to crash into a corner. Her opponent stepped forward, ready to make the killing stroke. But Morgan hesitated, glancing at the palace walls around them.

“What did you do?” she demanded.

“Your…illusion is broken,” the wounded Nimue choked out, lying in a heap and clutching her belly. “Castle Malagant is once again visible…for all the world to see.”

“And what good will that do you?”

“Me? None,” the Lady of the Lake answered. “But they certainly appreciate it.”

As Morgan whirled around, she saw King Arthur and his knights charging into the hall, swords drawn. Hop o’ My Thumb rode proudly on the king’s shoulder, a satisfied smirk on his face. Fooled by the illusory castle to the east, they had almost given up searching this area when the true Castle Malagant had reappeared as if a veil had been lifted.

Screaming in defiance, Morgan loosed a lightning bolt at her half-brother. But the king merely hoisted Excalibur and deflected it, the magic of the blade shielding him.

“Give up, sister,” he said. “You are undone. Come quietly and I shall grant you clemency.”

“Keep your mercy, Pendragon!” Morgan screeched.

“Please, Mother,” called Sir Uwain, standing beside his king. “Do as he says.”

“As usual, my children betray me,” said Morgan. “You are no son of mine, Uwain!”

“We don’t want to harm you,” Uwain insisted.

“Speak for yourself, youngster,” said Sir Kay. The burly carrot-topped knight pointed with his sword. “Say the word, Arthur, and I’ll lop off the witch’s head.”

“I beg of you, Morgan,” Arthur continued, ignoring Kay’s request. “Let there be peace between us! I have no wish to fight my own kin.”

“At any rate, sorceress,” Sir Bedivere added, “you are outnumbered.” Sir Pelleas and Morvydd emerged from the adjoining room, helping Nimue to her feet and taking their places beside Camelot’s warriors.

“Fools!” Morgan declared. “We have not strength of numbers but we have power! My spells combined with those of Morgause and Madame Mim—”

“—Shall do nothing,” Thumbelina said, emerging from Morvydd’s dress (much to the surprise of the bewildered knights). She floated into Morgan’s field of vision triumphantly. “Morgause we left decrepit and unconscious in her chambers. And Mim is either sapped of power by the sun or dead from smoke inhalation by now.”

Morgan looked over the growing crowd of her enemies, her eyes darting back and forth like a cornered animal. Even with her much-vaunted powers, battling solo against five knights, two enchantresses, and a surprisingly resourceful team of imps would be a challenge.

“You haven’t won,” she muttered. “You merely delay the inevitable. Camelot shall fall and mine will be the hand that brings the hammer down!” Uttering a string of strange syllables, Morgan le Fay raised her hands and summoned a cloud of smoke that swirled about her. When at last it cleared, the sorceress-queen was gone.

The assembled warriors relaxed at last, lowering their weapons. Morvydd ran to Uwain and threw her arms about him in an embrace that half-squished the remaining Leaguers in her bodice.

“Uwain!”

“Morvydd?” the knight said in surprise. “Sister, what are you doing here?”

As reunions and explanations echoed through the hall, a lone figure crept stealthily towards the door. Sir Kay caught the motion in the corner of his eye and charged across the room, blocking Mordred’s escape. He grabbed the boy by the collar of his tunic, dragging him out of the shadows.

“Kay!” the lad cried. “Arthur! Oh thank heaven, you’ve all come to rescue me! She—she had me ensorcelled! Bewitched! An unwilling accomplice to her dark arts stripped of my free will! I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t arrived!”

Arthur eyed his son with suspicion. “Indeed. Well, you’re safe now, Mordred,” he said. He gave a knowing look to his knights. Watch him, it said. Watch him close.

“Do you believe him?” Kay whispered to Bedivere.

“I trust Mordred about as far as I could move this castle,” Bedivere answered.

The company searched the premises but found no trace of Morgause or Mim. Both had no doubt fled as their powers failed them. Kay urged Arthur to gather the Round Table’s warriors and lay siege to Morgause’s stronghold in Orkney. But the king shook his head. With no proof, it was the League’s word against hers that Morgause was ever even there. And Arthur had no wish to war with yet another sister.

At last, the Leaguers led the knights to the room where Guinevere was held captive. The lady cried out happily as they entered. “Arthur, you came for me!”

Arthur was astonished. “What devilry is this?” he said breathlessly, backing away from her outstretched hands. “I left the queen safely back home in Camelot!”

“That was an impostor,” Tom called from Morvydd’s shoulder. “Her sister Guinevak is in league with Morgan.”

“Impossible,” Arthur swore. “Do you think I don’t know my own wife, Sir Tom? This is some new trick of Morgan’s. A double to confuse and vex me!” He drew Excalibur and advanced on the queen.

“Back, demon! Assume your true form that I may dispatch you!”

“H-husband?” said Guinevere, shocked. Arthur lunged forward, the point of his sword aimed at her heart.

To be continued...