Morlock Night by K.W. Jeter

then only her fiercely glaring eyes were able to finish her message.
    Â Â I pushed the door open and surveyed the room beyond. At least Merdenne had had the graciousness to furnish it in keeping with the noble stature of his captive. Heavy drapes coursed down the burnished walls, while a tasteful collection of Persian miniatures were grouped over the carved fireplace. A pair of large humidors clad in Morocco leather stood on one side of the intricate Oriental carpets. Several hundred volumes similarly clad and stamped in gold on their bindings filled the library shelves.
    Â Â A large wing chair was turned away from us toward the window, though I could see a man's hand, brown-spotted with age, resting upon one upholstered arm. I opened my mouth to speak, then halted in perplexity. How was I to address him? Morsmere or Arthur? General or king?
    Â Â My dilemma was resolved when he, apparently having heard the door opening, twisted about in the chair and leaned over the arm to look, at us. "Yes?" he said. "What is it?"
    Â Â The voice was deep, resonant with authority and command, the face lean and strong-boned, with a high forehead below sparse grey hair. Grey also was the neatly trimmed military moustache. The eyes, deep set in his weathered face, reflected a sombre, almost melancholy nature, as though they were the repository of some ancient, oft-repeated tragedy.
    Â Â "I– we– that is…" My tongue moved in confused stammering. "General Morsmere–"
    Â Â "Please." He held up his hand. "There's no need to maintain that fiction. Merlin sent you, didn't he? Or Ambrose, as you might know him. I've been expecting someone to come for some time now." His voice seemed oddly weary, rather than pleased at our arrival.
    Â Â "That's right." I inclined my head in a bow of respect. "My name is Edwin Hocker and my companion here is called Tafe. That's all. We've come to take your highness out of here."
    Â Â "'Your highness'," he said, and sighed. "Please don't burden yourself, Mr. Hocker, with the empty trappings of courtly etiquette. Arthur is all the name and title I ever wished." He rose and faced us, clutching the chair's arm for support. "And I'm afraid I must further disappoint you both. I don't think I'm going to be leaving here."
    Â Â "But, my dear sir, why not?" I stood dumbfounded at this development. Nothing was turning out as I had anticipated. Instead of being cheered at the prospect of his release, he seemed grimly displeased by it. "You know, don't you, that your England has need of you?"
    Â Â "Merdenne – as he calls himself now – has gloatingly informed me of the whole situation." Arthur drew himself a little straighter. "It is not ignorance that keeps me here. No, not ignorance, but rather the opposite. I have not lived these many lives without remembering something from each. And that knowledge wearies me." His old soldier's face seemed even older now, as though the skin were being pulled back toward the skull.
    Â Â "What– what do you mean by that?" I suddenly felt chilled, as if a wind from some dark corner of the Earth had come into the room. From the corner of my eye I could see Tafe grow pale as well.
    Â Â "I'm old," said Arthur. "Older than you could ever know. I've lived many times, and fought and died many times, and now I'm called to defend my England once more – but why?" The last word was a cry of bitterness breaking from his lips. "Did I live and die all those times so that a few children of England could grow fat while the many sweat out their drab lives in the dark holes of the cities?" His trembling hand flew toward the window, from which the dark shapes of the tenements could be seen. "And beyond our shores," he said with weary disgust. "Did I defend England so that other lands could be made to suffer our will, their people ground beneath our heel for our profit? Oh, how tarnished our English honour has become! How strong the