Part 8

Excalibur flashed, its blade descending with terrible swiftness to run Guinevere through. Kay and Bedivere were upon the king in an instant, grabbing his arms with shocked desperation and holding him back.

“Arthur!” Sir Bedivere cried. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Away! Release me!” Arthur growled, struggling against the knights. “This demon mocks me with my beloved wife’s visage!”

“This IS your wife!” protested Bedivere. “Did you not hear Merlin’s homunculi? An impostor holds court in her place!”

Arthur fought and kicked like a rabid dog, trying to free himself. “Lies! Falsity! I know my Jenny, Bedivere. Who would you believe – your king or a troop of scuttling mouse-men?”

The monarch’s harsh words stung the Leaguers as they sat gathered on Princess Morvydd’s shoulders. They had served Arthur valiantly and risked much for him over the years. Was this all he truly thought of them?

“Brother! Wart…” Sir Kay said, using the king’s childhood nickname. The tall carrot-topped warrior hoped this familiarity would bring Arthur back to his senses rather than enrage him further. “What if they’re right?”

The king’s struggles subsided and a cold calmness returned to him. He said nothing but continued to stare at the bewildered and frightened Guinevere.

“Sir Tom. All of you,” Bedivere said, turning to the little folk. “Do you swear by God and country that this is the true Queen Guinevere?”

“We do,” Tom declared.

“And you, my lady.” Bedivere turned to the woman. “You are the Queen of Britain and no devil summoned from Hell to bewitch us? No faerie glamour disguises your true form?”

“It’s me, Bedivere, I swear it is!” the queen babbled, fighting back tears. “You must believe me!”

“She’s telling the truth,” Morvydd insisted. “My mother kidnapped her for a ritual.”

“You saw her capture the queen?” Bedivere asked.

“Well, no, but…”

“I see.” Bedivere sighed, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “We have no choice then. It is the League and this lady’s word against that of…the other queen. Let us bring her back to court and see if we can sort it out there.”

* * * *

The dour and bewildered company began the journey back to Camelot. The king was still inflexible on the matter so they had no choice but to take Guinevere as their prisoner. Amiably, the queen agreed to have her hands bound and ride on the back of Sir Bedivere’s horse, though it pained everyone to see this done.

The League remained upon Morvydd’s shoulders for the princess was loath to part with the wondrous little creatures. Strands of jet black hair were tied around their waists to keep them from falling as she rode behind her brother Uwain. Playful as always, Morvydd had offered to carry them in the bodice of her gown where they would be safe and “cushioned.” But the League feared the violent upheaval of this region that would result from their hostess being on horseback. A bouncing female bosom was no way to travel. ‘Lina’s aching ribs from the trip down the staircase could attest to that.

Before departing the Summer Country, the company bid farewell to Nimue and Sir Pelleas. The battle with Morgan had nearly killed the young enchantress. Her energy, both conventional and mystical, was sapped and she was still nursing numerous wounds. Only a dip in Avalon’s healing Red Spring would restore her.

“I thank you for your service, dear lady,” Arthur said, using Excalibur to remove the last vestiges of Nimue’s iron shackles. “You have more than proven your loyalty to the crown. Your sins are forgiven.”

“By you perhaps,” the Lady of the Lake said, rubbing her scalded wrists. “I’m not sure I will ever forgive myself. But I have my own penance to make. Myrddin Emrys’ power is within me and it will take my all not to be overwhelmed by it. Fighting Morgan unleashed something in me. I see the world so differently now – spirits of the air and earth, gods and faerie folk hidden from mortal eyes. And even now, the visions come. Dark days are ahead, Arthur. Be ready for them.”

The king frowned at the priestess with concern. He turned to her handsome escort. “Look after her, Pelleas.”

“To the end of my days, your majesty,” Pelleas said. He reached out to lend Nimue a supportive shoulder and guided her to the shore of the lake where the Barge of Avalon was waiting.

As the boat glided silently into the mist, the knights remounted their horses and were off. The League’s hearts sank for they feared they had lost a potential ally in proving the queen’s identity.

* * * *

When the troop at last returned to Camelot, there was, unsurprisingly, much confusion. The false Guinevere maintained that she was the genuine article, as did the true queen. Most of the Round Table was gathered in the great hall to debate this point, though Sir Mordred had slunk away to his quarters, hiding himself from suspicious eyes and denying everything.

Astonishingly, Arthur continued to side with Guinevak and believed her to be his wife. Some form of magic still held him in thrall. Though Morgan le Fay was defeated, she had left behind a lasting legacy.

“Of course she’s the real queen!” said one of the knights, Sir Bertholai. “Arthur would know the woman he married!”

Guinevak smiled at his endorsement from her stolen throne. Sir Bertholai, a knight of her homeland Cameliard, was in fact one of the hired thugs she had sent to capture Guinevere days earlier. He was fiercely loyal to Guinevak and more than a little infatuated with her.

“This is ludicrous!” Tom called from a tabletop. Morvydd sat in a chair beside him, idly stroking the little man with slender fingers. Tom pushed the trunk-like masses away in annoyance. “Not now, my lady! Thumbling, tell them about the birthmark! You were the first to spot it!”

The rest of the League was nearby, sitting on overturned teacups and the edge of an empty dinner plate. Eager to be involved, Morvydd snatched up a wooden spoon and used it to scoop Thumbling into the air. She held him high for everyone in the hall to see.

“Whoa!” he cried, sitting uneasily in the hollow of the spoon, his legs dangling over the side. “Er, yes. The real queen has a birthmark on her back that—”

Guinevak gasped in mock horror. “You’ve been spying on me? In my boudoir?! This is an outrage! Arthur, these horrid little imps should be put to death at once!”

“No!” the real Guinevere shrieked. “You mustn’t!”

“Her as well!” Guinevak added. She turned and reached out a hand to Sir Lancelot, who was standing vigilant beside the throne. “Surely you can see the truth, Lance. You know I am truly who I say I am.”

But Lancelot merely stared at the floor with unblinking eyes, lost in concentration. He seemed as if he were trying to recall something, an elusive memory which flitted just beyond his reach.

“Lance,” the real Guinevere said, her wrists still bound by ropes. “Please…you know me. You can’t believe her as well!”

“Enough lies, pawn of Morgan!” Arthur barked. “We will not fall for your tricks. I accuse you of treason!”

“The birthmark! Check the birthmark!” the Leaguers cried desperately. But their little voices were drowned out by the cacophony of arguments that erupted in the hall.

“You will be tried,” Arthur continued. “And if the verdict is guilty, you burn.”

“NO!” Lancelot suddenly bellowed. Whatever spell he’d been under was broken and the champion of Gaul charged across the room, pushing past his fellow knights. Drawing his sword, he cut through Guinevere’s bonds and grabbed her by the arm.

“Stop them! Stop them!” Arthur yelled to his warriors. The knights looked about in puzzlement, hesitant to fight the best among them.

“Lancelot! This way!” a voice called. Lance’s friend, Sir Galehaut, a towering bear of a man, had cleared a path through the crowd, pushing and intimidating everyone around him.

“We make for Sorelois!” the tall man said as Lancelot and Guinevere ran to him. If Arthur had gone mad – as indeed it seemed – Galehaut was prepared to offer Lance and the queen sanctuary in his own castle. It was rumored that Galehaut loved Lancelot in a way neither of them was prepared to deal with, but his loyalty to his friend was unwavering. In moments, the three of them had fled from the palace.

Arthur was already ordering a search party to retrieve the so-called traitors but the knights were at a loss. Their king swore loyalty to one queen and Lancelot to another. Who was to be believed?

“Mon Dieu, what brought Lancelot back to our side?” Hop wondered as the hall descended into chaos.

‘Lina snapped her fingers as a thought occurred. “Guinevak’s love potion! It must be wearing off! If we can destroy her supply, maybe we can snap Arthur back to reality as well!”

“Come, my friends,” Tom called to the team. “There’s still a hope!”

As the others gathered to him, Tom looked for Thumbling but saw only a guilty-looking Morvydd with the wooden spoon in her mouth. The princess smiled sheepishly with her lips wrapped around the utensil. She slid the spoon back out and opened wide, revealing a moistened Thumbling face down and clinging to her tongue as if riding a wild bull. As it undulated beneath him, he raised his head and looked out at his teammates through the gates of her teeth.

“Oh. Uh…new mission, eh? Sorry, kid, maybe we can finish this later.”

Morvydd thrust her tongue out and let him slide off it, catching him in her hand. She wiped him off with a napkin and set him on the table with the others.

“You disgust me,” ‘Lina told him.

* * * * *

The League hurried once again for the royal bedchamber, seeking Guinevak’s stash of love potion. They searched the surface of the bedside table and climbed up each wooden chest and armoire in the room. It took some effort but they were able to use their tiny swords like fulcrums to pry open each drawer and scour the interior. But the potions were nowhere to be found.

“Looking for this?” a dulcet voice called from the doorway. The towering Guinevak stood at the entrance haughtily, dangling a glass vial from her fingers.

“I heard your squeaking about my sister’s birthmark. Very clever, little ones,” she said, walking slowly into the room and closing the door behind her. The League froze where they stood on the edge of a dresser drawer. “You almost blew my cover. Lucky that Sir Lancelot provided a distraction with his oh so dramatic escape. That should keep Arthur and his lackeys busy long enough for me to…tie up loose ends.”

Guinevak tucked the vial of potion into the top of her dress. As she gently pressed down on it with two fingers, the small bottle vanished into her bosom. “My last one,” the false queen said, patting her chest protectively. “I’m sure Queen Morgan will be glad to replenish my stock once I’ve disposed of the only witnesses who can identify me.”

At once, the woman lunged at the dresser and attempted to swat the tiny homunculi. The League scattered, dodging each slap and grasp of her giant hands. Most of them managed to clamber or fly over the sides of the drawer and disperse. But as always, Issun-boshi’s tiny legs carried him much slower than his comrades. Guinevak took notice of the little figure sprinting across the folded linens. With a devious smile, she reached for him next.

Huge, delicate fingers began to close about Issun, forcing the samurai to leap headfirst through a rapidly shrinking gap at the side of her hand. He barely made it through before the gap closed and the fingers balled into a crushing fist behind him. Undeterred, Guinevak let him scurry a few more inches away, bolstering his confidence. She then simply leaned down, pursed her lips, and blew on the inch-high warrior.

Her breath was like a gale force wind at his scale and he was soon swept off his feet and sent somersaulting forward. Issun collided hard with the side of the wooden drawer. With a chuckle, Guinevak reached down and plucked him up between forefinger and thumb.

“So small, so fragile. And so easy to get rid of the evidence,” she told him, bringing him inches before her bright red lips. “Can’t have the court finding your remains. I’m afraid it’s down the hatch for you, like a good little shrimp.”

Casually, the lady flicked him into the air, leaned back, and opened wide, seeking to catch him in her mouth like a popcorn kernel. Issun felt himself plunging towards her jaws, a dark abyss yawning below and strewn with long strands of saliva. “Please, gods,” he screamed in his mind, “not again!”

As he closed his eyes, Issun felt something collide with his body. Yet it was not a monstrous tongue or a crushing white molar but a teammate! ‘Lina had shot across the room like a tiny battering ram, snatching him out of thin air.

“My – my thanks, Princess,” Issun stammered. “Being eaten once is enough for a lifetime.”

“I know the feeling,” she agreed.

With two little folk flying out of her reach, Guinevak turned her attention to those on the floor. Tom, Hop, and Thumbling were scrambling away in fright like startled mice. The woman sprang forward intent on stomping the closest homunculus, a dubious honor that belonged to Tom. Guinevak resolved to cover the resulting blood stain with a rug and clean up the mess later.

Tom ran for his life, staying just ahead of each stomp. The ground rumbled beneath him every time the gigantic foot made landfall and it became increasingly difficult for him to keep his balance. Taking note of his plight, Guinevak jumped rapidly up and down in place, shaking the floorboards. This soon caused Tom to fall and she was upon him in an instant, slamming her foot down one final time. The little man disappeared under the colossal appendage and Guinevak ground her foot back and forth to smear his innards over the wood.

With a satisfied grin, she lifted her foot to observe the gory remains. But nothing was there. A few feet from the spot, Hop was dragging Tom away with a burst of speed from his magic boots. Screaming in defiance, Guinevak turned away from them and set her sights on Thumbling. She tried to stomp him as well, only to witness a similar disappearing act. Now Hop was on the other side of the room, dragging a teammate behind him with both hands.

The false queen was enraged. She began to see why Morgan and the others had not simply crushed these Leaguers like ants. For such insignificant pests, they were remarkably resilient.

Once Tom and ‘Ling were hidden beneath a table a safe distance away, Hop turned around with determination. He eyed the furious giantess in the distance, set down his feathered hat, and rolled up his sleeves. “I shall fetch ze potion,” he said. Activating the boots, he vanished at once.

Faster than the eye, Hop sped to the mountainous woman and grabbed the hem of her dress. He began scaling the back of this garment, pausing only briefly to admire the fine curves of her backside. Moments later, he had reached her shoulder. Thanks to the seven-league boots, all this had happened in mere seconds and Guinevak had not yet noticed him. She still searched angrily this way and that, seeking the fleeing little people.

Hop peered over the edge of the shoulder and down into the shadowed bodice where the potion lay hidden. He smiled. “I love my work,” the miniature adventurer said as he dove headfirst down Guinevak’s dress.

The little man slid down through her décolletage, grabbing hold of the potion vial. He was about to whisk himself away with the power of the boots when a crushing weight closed in around him. Guinevak had at last felt his presence and quickly pressed her breasts inward with both hands, trapping her tiny foe. Hop was now suspended upside down, caught in the suddenly narrow confines of her cleavage.

“Not so fast, you wee pervert,” she said. She inspected the small, kicking legs that protruded from within her flesh. Wrapping an arm about her chest to keep her endowments in place, she reached down with her other hand and pulled off each of Hop’s boots. “You’re the one with the magic shoes, yes? I’ll just be taking these, thank you.”

Guinevak tossed the tiny boots aside and returned her attention to the now helpless creature imprisoned by her feminine charms. “I wonder how much pressure it would take to crack your little skull or ribcage,” she mused. She continued to squeeze her bosom together until Hop grunted in pain. Mountains of pink flesh pressed in against him, enfolding him in their deadly embrace. In minutes, he’d be little more than a red smear across her skin.

“Ah, but such pressure is sure to crack the potion vial as well,” the lady realized. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You’d sacrifice yourself to take the potion with you. Not on your worthless life, little man. Give it to me!”

Delaying her torture for a moment, Guinevak released her grip and reached two fingers into the depression between her breasts, fishing for the glass container. Though every centimeter of him ached, Hop seized his moment. He slipped deeper into the chasm and grabbed the vial first. As the woman tried to snatch it from him, he flung it suddenly upwards into the open air.

Guinevak was unprepared for this and quickly fumbled to catch it. As she did so, ‘Lina swooped at the back of her head and grabbed two handfuls of red-gold hair. The tiny princess shot upward, yanking hard on Guinevak’s tresses until they were nearly pulled from her scalp. The woman shrieked in pain and the vial slipped from her fingers. The glass vessel fell to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces, spilling its precious liquid across the floor.

“No!” Guinevak yelled, dropping to her knees. She tried in vain to gather up the remnants of the magical mixture. As she bent forward, Hop slipped from her décolletage and fell to the floor in a heap but she hardly noticed.

“She must have gone this way, men!” a voice called from the corridor. Guinevak looked up in alarm.

“How do we know if she’s the impostor?” the voice of Sir Uwain spoke from behind the door.

“We don’t. Yet,” Sir Bedivere answered. “But I don’t want her out of my sight until this whole thing is resolved. Arthur is behaving most oddly.”

“No, no, no, no!” the false queen hissed under her breath. With the love potion gone, her hold on King Arthur would soon slip and she would be found out. Desperately, she crawled on hands and knees to the full length mirror on the other side of the room. Guinevak pulled a small pouch from her pocket and flung its shimmery dust at the mirror, babbling out the spell to contact her employer.

“Open the door, my lady,” Bedivere called, knocking determinedly.

As before, Guinevak’s reflection distorted and transformed into that of Morgan le Fay. The image of the dark-haired sorceress stood over her frenzied follower, who was still on her knees.

“You have failed me, Guinevak,” Morgan said coolly.

“No, my queen!” Guinevak protested. “I just need more potion! Arthur can still be ours!”

“Open, I say!” Bedivere continued. “We can’t allow you to roam free until the truth of your words is determined.” He tried the handle of the door but found it locked. “Kay, break it down.”

“More potion? There’s no time, you fool!” Morgan told Guinevak. “The enemy is at your door!”

“Oh God! Please, you can’t leave me here!” cried Guinevak. “They’ll try me for treason, burn me at the stake! Morgan, you must take me with you!”

Something large and heavy slammed against the outside of the door. This repeated several times until the wood slowly began to splinter.

“You are of no further use to me,” said Morgan. She began to turn away.

“Please, my mistress!” Guinevak shrieked. “Don’t consign me to the fire!”

“Very well,” Morgan conceded in annoyance. “You shall not perish by fire.” She spoke an eerie string of syllables and made a gesture with her hands. But the mirror gateway did not open. Moments later, Guinevak suddenly felt warm and feverish and the color began to drain from her face. Every muscle ached and lost its strength and a sharp pain filled her belly.

“W-what…have you done?” she stammered, sinking to the floor.

“Your end will be swift, Guinevak. I can grant you that at least,” Morgan told her. “This is the price of failure. Farewell.”

Weakly, Guinevak reached a hand up to clutch at the mirror. But the image of Morgan le Fay was already fading from sight. As it winked out of existence, the door of the chamber burst open and the company of knights charged in.

* * * *

Guinevak’s strange malady continued to worsen in the days that followed and soon Sir Bertholai was stricken with the same symptoms. On their sickbeds, they admitted their complacency with Morgan’s scheme and verified the real Guinevere’s identity. Both conspirators were dead before the week was out. Sir Lancelot brought the true queen back to court where she was reunited with Arthur, now free of the love potion’s madness.

“Jenny, my darling, can you forgive an old fool?” the king asked, head bowed solemnly. With tears in her eyes, Guinevere embraced her husband. Chivalrously, Lancelot turned away. If he had harbored any hopes that Arthur’s rejection of the queen meant that he himself could win her, Lance said nothing.

Of Morgan le Fay, there was no trace. But it was only a matter of time before she struck again. Madam Mim, it was said, had fled back to her cottage in the Forest Sauvage, bored of this latest game. Queen Morgause had returned to her castle in the far northern Orkney Isles, where she set about seducing a family enemy, Sir Lamorak. This was a love affair doomed to tragedy and death for both parties (though that is another tale).

Sir Mordred continued to deny his involvement in the Sisterhood’s schemes. Though few believed him, there was no proof that he hadn’t been under a spell. The brooding youth returned to his own secret plans and his own counsel.

As for the League, they were brought forth and honored for their efforts, recognized at last as more than mere toy soldiers.

“For your bravery in combating the Sisterhood and helping to root out this conspiracy, at great risk to thyselves,” Arthur said, holding Excalibur over them, “I dub thee each true knights of the realm. Arise, Sir Thomas Thumb, Sir Issun-boshi, Sir Thumbling, Sir Hop o’ My Thumb, and Dame Maia Thumbelina.”

The League stood in a semi-circle on the Round Table, the king and queen gazing down at them with gratitude. Guinevere leaned down and gently kissed each tiny head. Nearby, a lady-in-waiting stood with a familiar owl napping on her outstretched arm.

Archimedes awoke with a start as the knights cheered their rather unorthodox new members. “Eh? What, what? Oh, you’re back, are you? Well, I hate to break it to you but Nimue never did return to the tower. Afraid I haven’t seen her.”

“Er, yes, Archimedes,” Tom said. “We know. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“Ah. Good to know,” the owl said, closing his eyes. A moment later, he opened one again and stared at the clamor in the hall crossly. “What’s all this racket? Can’t a fellow get some peace around here?”

The End