Free Sword of Camelot by Gilbert L. Morris Page B

sucking in of his breath made a painful noise. Nevertheless, he scrambled to his feet and held up his hands again. “I will not fail you this time, Sire.”
    â€œVery well,” the Dark Lord said in a deadly voice, “You have one more opportunity. See that you do not fail. What is the situation?”
    â€œI will send a messenger at once,” Elmas said quickly. He was breathing a little easier now. “We have one of ours in Camelot. He is a clever and ruthless man. I will at once alert him to the danger of the Sleepers.”
    â€œGet out. See that it is done.”
    The Dark Lord watched the priest scramble out of the chamber. “Fool,” he said. He struck the wall with his fist, and it seemed that the rocks trembled with his power. “Always these Sleepers! Always Goel!” He clenched his fist again, and the evil in his face grew more pronounced. “I will pull the flesh off their bones, all of them! They will not take my kingdom!”
    * * *
    â€œSire, a messenger has just arrived.” The servant who had come to the chamber of Lord Melchior watched apprehensively. One never knew how Melchior would take things. “He says that it is urgent.”
    Melchior gave the servant a sour glance. “Who is he? What is his name?”
    â€œHe will not give his name—but he says he comes from Elmas, of the Sanhedrin.”
    Melchior glanced up, his eyes flickering with interest. “Sanhedrin, eh? Well, show him in.”
    When the servant had left, Melchior reached out and poured a stream of red wine into a silver flagon. He lifted it to his lips, sipped, and murmured to himself, “So. The Sanhedrin now is sending messages. I know Elmas. He'll use me if he can—but two can play at that game!”
    The door swung open, and a small man dressed in a green cloak, shabby and worn, entered. A hood covered his head, and he bowed slightly. “Sir Melchior, I have a message from Elmas, my master.”
    â€œWell, what is the message? Give it to me.”
    â€œIt is not written down, Sire. Such things would be too dangerous.” The messenger threw his cloak back, and Melchior blinked at the features of the man who stood before him. He was an albino—his eyebrows and hair were colorless and even his eyes a milky white. “My master commands me to tell you that it is urgent that you capture those who have come to Camelot.”
    â€œâ€˜Those who have come’?” Melchior questioned. “Many people have come to Camelot.”
    A sullen expression came into the messenger's face. “Not like these. They are the most dangerous opponents of our kingdom.”
    â€œI have heard of no newcomers of such importance. Surely I would have heard if such emissaries had come.”
    â€œNot necessarily Sir Melchior.” The messenger shook his head. “These are very deceitful messengers. They are all very young, none over fifteen.”
    â€œChildren!” Melchior snorted in amazement. “I am to capture children? Has it come to that?”
    â€œDo not take the matter so lightly! These are the servants of Goel. Their power we can only guess at, but they have escaped traps and have foiled the intentions and plans of the Dark Lord. It is he, my master says, who commands that the Seven Sleepers be captured or killed.”
    Melchior stared at him, then said, “Sit down. I'll have food brought.”
    When the messenger had seated himself, Melchior poured a flagon of wine and shoved it before him. As the man drank thirstily, Melchior said, “Now, tell me all you know about the ‘Seven Sleepers.’”
    * * *
    The entire castle of Camelot was decorated with banners of red and blue and yellow—the colors of King Dion. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread was in the air in front of the jousting field. The stands were filled with the nobility of the kingdom. Out on the far side of the field the groundlings watched as