The Excalibur Murders

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“Good heavens, look at them, Colin. They actually enjoy hitting each other. And hurting each other. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.” Merlin stood at the window at the top of his tower in Camelot. A large raven sat perched on his shoulder, and another one sat on the windowsill beside him; he fed them from a pocketful of bread crumbs. Below in the courtyard knights were exercising, which meant drilling with sword and shield. The clang of metal on metal rang clearly, as did their cries and grunts.

“They slice each other to slivers, then come to me and expect me to heal them,” he grumped.

“You are a wizard, after all.”

“Be quiet. I am a modestly skilled doctor, no more, and you know it.”

Merlin’s study was large and circular. Rough stone walls were lined with shelves of scrolls and parchments. There were four chairs and a rough-hewn wooden table. Some manuscripts were spread out on it; his assistant held another one and studied it. It was nearly sundown. Two torches gave the light.

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