Tom’s torch was still burning strongly and he had no idea what time it was, but his stomach grumbled loudly. He paused on one of the steps, drank some water, and ate a few biscuits.
Other than the torchlight that flickered in the occasional draughts that eddied around him, Tom was surrounded by a musty blackness. He had passed passageways that branched off from broad landings, but as instructed, he kept to the main path, heading ever deeper into the earth. Heaviness settled upon him, and he truly felt the weighty expectation of his strange inheritance. He pulled his sleeve up to look at his birthmark.
It seemed to move in the torchlight, and he ran his fingers over it as if he might feel its edges raised, different from his normal skin. But it felt the same as usual. He hadn’t really taken notice of it before, and to him its darker tone didn’t even look like a sword.
He sighed, gathered his things, and started down the path again.
Tom hadn’t gone far when he heard voices—vague whisperings and murmurs, and he froze, straining to hear where they were coming from. But it was impossible; they seemed everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He swallowed his fear and resisted the urge to run back to the cave, and instead carried on, deciding they were a trick of his ears and the pressing darkness. Eventually, he came across a tiny, yellow light in a passage off to his right, the entrance marked by a metal gate on rusty hinges. As he paused before it, the gate swung wide in welcome. The yellow light at the end of the passage flared brightly, and blossom-scented air raced out to envelop him. It looked so welcoming and warm, and he was so cold that he decided to investigate. He stepped closer and the light flared even brighter, but as he laid his hand on the gate, his own torch flickered and nearly went out, causing him to halt sharply. He stepped back warily as Vivian’s warning came back to him—stay on the path. A shriek pierced the silence and the light at the end of the passage disappeared, and in its absence he saw glowing red eyes and smelled rotten flesh. Tom fled downwards, sick with fear, cursing his stupidity and almost stumbling over his own feet. Taking deep breaths, he noticed his torch was once again burning strong and bright, and he vowed he wouldn’t forget Vivian’s instructions a second time.
As Tom plunged deeper underground it became colder and colder, and by the time he reached the bottom of the steps, his breath appeared as icy clouds. There was now only one route to follow: a passageway, thick with frost that disappeared into intense darkness. Feeling he was nearing his goal, Tom set off quickly, anxious to be out of this horrible place. What had Vivian said Avalon was? A place where things begin, end, rest, wait, and watch. What the hell did that mean? She was infuriatingly cryptic.
Finally, his extremities almost frozen, Tom saw a dim light ahead, and emerged into a long cavern with a low roof that seemed to be made of crystal. Murky green light was filtering through it, and a flash of movement overhead made him realise that he was now under the lake. It was like being in an aquarium.
He turned his attention to the rest of the cavern, noting that the floor was made of flat slabs of stone, the walls were hewn from rock, and the entire place was covered in thick, frozen vines. More importantly, in the centre of the space, partly obscured by the tangle of leaves, was a rectangular tomb made of opaque crystal, like the roof, and deep within it he could see the shadowy shape of a man.
The tomb of King Arthur.
Tom sighed with relief and yelled, “Yes!” He’d made it. Now, he just needed to work out what to do. If King Arthur wasn’t dead, why was he in a tomb? Bloody Vivian. Couldn’t she have been a bit more direct?
He wedged his torch into a break in the rock, then squared up to the tomb, braced himself, and tried to push the lid off. Nothing happened, and he swore loudly and profusely, enjoying the fact that no one could tell him off for his profanities. But it was at this point he realised, as he blew on his hands in an effort to warm them up, that the tomb wasn’t made of some kind of crystal. It was formed from ice. There was actually no lid; the entire thing was one, solid block.
How the hell was he supposed to open it? The sharpest thing he had in his pack was his pocketknife. What he needed was a pick-axe. He dropped his pack on the floor, pulling out everything in an effort to find something useful, when he saw the silver branch—or bough, as Fahey had called it. Did he need to use it here? Vivian had said it would help.
Its silvery brightness glowed in the dim green light, and with fumbling fingers, Tom pulled it out. He walked around the cavern peering at the vines, hoping the branch in his hand would fit somewhere, but nothing looked suitable.
It was at this point his adrenalin ran out and he slumped to the floor, repacking his bag as he sat staring at the tomb and the sleeping King within it. Something glinted in King Arthur’s hands, something that ran the length of his body. Curiosity overcame his tiredness, and he stood and leaned over the tomb, peering within its depths, and grinned as he realised it was Excalibur. He shook his head in disbelief. He was actually looking at King Arthur and his famous sword. How weird was this?
Tom put the silver branch down on the tomb and pulled the water from his pack. There was hardly any left, and he might need to share it, assuming he could somehow wake the King. They would have to climb all the way out again. What if the King was old and decrepit? Or severely weakened, after sleeping for hundreds of years?
He stared absently down, mulling over what to do, when he noticed that the contact with the tomb seemed to be doing something to the silver branch. Its brightness was decreasing, and it was turning back into wood, as it had been when Vivian gave it to him. New shoots were sprouting rapidly, and tendrils spread across the tomb. As they touched the old frozen vines, they started thawing and growing too with alarming speed.
Tom leapt backwards as the vines spread, threatening to entangle his feet, and the walls started moving with green, wriggling growth. Within seconds the tomb was invisible under a mass of vines, and the bough returned to silver, glinting under the fresh leaves. An ominous rumbling dragged his attention back to the entrance, and he saw with a shock that the new growth had smothered it completely, its weight collapsing the roof in that section.
He was trapped.
In front of him, thick shoots were now punching their way through the tomb’s weakening ice. The cavern walls began to drip with moisture as the temperature warmed. Chunks of the icy tomb fell to the floor, and puddles formed beneath his feet. Tom pocketed the Silver Bough, put his backpack on, and began to pull chunks of ice away in an effort to speed things up.
A movement in the wall opposite stopped him momentarily. He felt a breeze and heard a dull roar. What now? He looked warily at the wall, and felt a splash of icy water on his head. Then he saw drops hitting the floor across the cavern. He looked up with horror. The roof wasn’t made of crystal. It was made of ice, too—and it was melting. He would drown if he didn’t get out of there quickly.
Tom grabbed the torch, ran to the wall, and pushed aside the vines. Thrusting the torch forward, he saw another long passageway, and he could hear running water.
Something slid and crashed behind him, and he heard a groan. His heart in his mouth, he spun around and saw King Arthur roll free of the ice. The King rose onto his hands and knees, breathing deeply, and then with great effort, he slowly stood up. Excalibur lay at his feet.
He was younger than Tom had expected, and taller, with a powerful build. He had shoulder-length dark hair, a short beard, and he wore finely stitched linen and leather clothing. For a few seconds he looked dazed, but then he focused on Tom, saying something that Tom couldn’t understand.
Tom shook his head. “What? I’m sorry; I can’t understand you. Look, we’re under the lake, and we have to go. Now!” Tom grabbed King Arthur by the arm and pulled him towards the exit.
He resisted, again saying something else that Tom couldn’t understand.
Tom pointed upwards at the dripping roof, trying to show the urgency of their situation. “We have to go—now!” He pulled on King Arthur’s arm again.
King Arthur looked up and around the cavern, and then understanding apparently dawned. He sheathed his sword and staggered after Tom, who headed through the gap and set off quickly along the tunnel.
As Tom ran, he glanced behind him, but King Arthur kept up. The passageway led to an underground river and then turned sharply left, and Tom skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding falling into the swiftly flowing, inky black water and certain death. The noise of running water was deafening. Tom glanced back and saw that King Arthur was right behind him, so he set off again. The path began to rise upwards, and the roar of water became louder until they reached a steep, crumbling rock face. To their right, a waterfall tumbled over the rocks, its spray filling the air around them.
Tom peered upwards into the darkness, and wondered how high they would have to climb. It was impossible to see where it ended. He gripped the torch tightly, and with his other hand he sought hand-holds as he clambered up the treacherous path. If he dropped the torch, they would be in total blackness. King Arthur slipped and muttered behind him.
Tom had the horrible feeling that the entire journey back to the surface was going to be this difficult, and they were a very long way down. If the cavern roof cracked it would flood, as would the path they were on. He did not want to drown. Don’t think of anything, just keep climbing, step by step. His limbs burned, his fingers were sore and bruised, and his chest ached with every breath he took. Beyond his laboured breathing and the roar of the waterfall, Tom heard and felt a deeper rumble. Was that the roof collapsing?
Just when he thought he couldn’t climb any longer, the path started to level out and the roof came into view not far above his head. He collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath, closely followed by the King who lay next to him, chest heaving.
Tom wondered why King Arthur couldn’t understand him; it would make things tricky. And then it struck him—Vivian had said to use the branch. He pulled it out of his pocket and, nudging King Arthur with his foot, handed it to him. He sat up, looking puzzled. “Why are you giving me this?”
Tom grinned and sat up, too. “Yes! I can understand you now! It worked.”
King Arthur looked shocked, and then smiled. “What an interesting trick!” He turned the bough over and over in his hands, as if it would reveal its secrets, then handed it back to Tom, looking at him intently. “To whom do I owe my life?”
“I’m Tom, and I was sent by Vivian to wake you. She needs you.” He held his hand out, and King Arthur shook it. He added hesitantly, “It’s an honour to meet you, King Arthur. Should I bow?”
He laughed. “Absolutely not, and please, call me Arthur. Thank you for rescuing me, I think. Where on Earth are we?”
“Under the lake that surrounds Avalon, and we better get a move on. I think I heard that roof collapse.”
Arthur nodded, and then pointed behind Tom. “Good idea. I can see a boat, so let us use that, because I’m not sure my legs can keep going much longer.”
Tom saw Arthur was right. They were on the edge of water—not a river, though. Something bigger. He could feel a change in the air and in the noise around them. The far side was hidden in darkness, but there was a small boat pulled up onto the shore, away from the racing water that plunged over the edge.
They pushed the boat into the water and clambered in, bobbing unevenly as they sat on narrow benches. Tom propped the torch in the bow as they looked for ways to move the boat, but within seconds, the boat started to move on its own.
Arthur murmured, “Vivian is always resourceful.”
Tom snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“And where are we now? Other than under the lake.” He looked wary, as if he knew Tom was about to tell him something odd.
Tom watched him, curious as to how he would take the news. “Well, we’re not in England anymore. We are in The Otherworld, The Land of the Fey, the Realm of Earth, or something of the sort.”
Arthur nodded slowly, but his gaze turned inward. “Ah! Merlin’s deal. I didn’t really believe that. I should have known better.” He focused sharply. “How long has it been?”
“Since your sort-of death? About 1,500 hundred years or so.”
Arthur’s mouth fell open in shock. “So long? By the Gods, that’s—” He stuttered for a moment. “That’s unbelievable. But Vivian is still alive?”
“She is.”
His eyes widened. “Anyone else? Gawain? Bedevere?”
“I don’t think so.” Tom shook his head sadly. He wondered whether to tell him that he was his descendent, but it seemed the wrong time, somehow. Arthur needed to come to terms with the news.
“So, I’m alone.” Arthur nodded with grim acceptance, then lay down, eyes closed, his head on the edge of the boat, feet tucked under the bench.
Tom watched him for a moment, and guessed he was in his thirties. He looked fit, as if he’d been asleep for hours rather than centuries. His sword lay sheathed at his side, and the hilt’s strange engravings flashed in the light. Had he only been this old when he’d died? Or had the magical sleep made him younger?
Tom looked again at his birthmark, comparing it to the sword next to Arthur. Was it his imagination, or did his birthmark look sharper than before, like an actual sword? Were there shapes coiling in its centre? He shook his head as if to free himself from a trance, covered his arm, and shivered.
The boat moved silently across the inky black depths of the lake, the roof low and uneven over their heads. They had come such a long way that Tom guessed they were travelling back to the lakeshore, not the Isle of Avalon. He glanced up, unsettled that there was water above them and below, with the possibility of more water arriving. If this cavern flooded, the water level would start to rise, and there wasn’t much room for that.
Without warning, they plunged into mist. Mist underground? Faerie magic strikes again. Tom was exhausted. He lay down in the bottom of the boat and gazed at the roof passing overhead, trusting that Vivian would protect them.