Excalibur

FADE IN:

EXT. FOREST - NIGHT

Darkness. The sound of battle cries and the clang of metal

upon metal. The forest lights up with huge sparks flying

from sword and ax as armored knights hack and swing at each

other. Mounted knights collide head-on at full gallop, their

armor made incandescent in the clash. Sparks eddy in their

wakes and float to the ground. The forest catches fire.

MAIN TITLES on the flames. Out of the sounds of ancient battle

grows music, heroic and barbaric, shot through with

melancholy.

Two crazed eyes reflect the fire. The eyes belong to a man

without age, at once ancient and boyish, female and male;

his eyes are pained from the burden of too much knowledge.

So close is he to the flames that a lock of his wild hair

sizzles alight. He slaps at the fire as if it were an annoying

insect. He wears a cloak of black trimmed with silver. It is

Merlin. The wizard weaves a path through the burning forest,

dodging the combatants, searching.

MERLIN:

Lord Uther! Lord Uther!

The forest around him weeps softly with the sounds that follow

slaughter. Patches of undergrowth are smoldering. Small flames

lick bark and branches.

Smoke floats through the trees and hovers over the bodies of

the dying and the dead.

A huge knight reins up beside Merlin on a lathered horse.

His armor is blood spattered. He is weary from battle. He

looks down at Merlin, his countenance fierce. The blade of

his sword glows with an unnatural aura.

MERLIN:

It's done. A truce. We meet at the

river.

UTHER:

(disgusted)

Talk. Lovers murmuring to each

other...

EXT. RIVER, FOREST - DAY

Waiting on one bank of a small river that flows through the

forest is a warlord, the Duke of Cornwall. He is flanked by

his armored warriors. Lot of Lowthean prominent among them.

They are battle-weary and bloodied, but they look ready to

fight. Behind them is an army of lesser knights.

To the opposite bank come Uther and Merlin, a much smaller

force of knights, including Uryens, Lord of Gore, surrounding

them.

DUKE OF CORNWALL

I spit on your truce, Uther. If you

want peace, throw down your swords.

Uther and the Duke of Cornwall glare at each other in silence

across the river. Uther strains forward, burning with anger;

but Merlin restrains him.

UTHER:

I should butcher all and every one

of them. Merlin, what is this wagging

of tongues?

MERLIN:

Just show the sword.

Uther unsheathes his mighty sword, and brandishes it in the

air high over his head. The blade hums disquietingly and

leaves a lingering electric hue upon the air. The marvel

instills dread in all present.

MERLIN:

(waxing eloquent)

Behold the sword of power, Excalibur.

Before Uther, it belonged to Lud,

before Lud, to Beowulf, before Beowulf

to Baldur the Good, before Baldur to

Thor himself and that was when the

world was young and there were more

than seven colors in the rainbow.

(and in an aside to

Uther)

Speak the words.

UTHER:

(bellowing)

One land, one king! That is my peace!

The Duke of Cornwall looks around nervously as some of his

knights fall to their knees in awe.

DUKE OF CORNWALL

Lord Uther, if I yield to the sword

of power, what will you yield?

UTHER:

Me, yield!?

Merlin urges Uther hard.

MERLIN:

(a whisper)

He has given. Now you must.

The two knights glare at each other, rage contending with

anger.

UTHER:

The land from here to the sea is

yours if you will enforce the King's

will.

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