Enchanted Warrior

by Sharon Ashwood

  The worm stopped, the head lifting to taste the air. Gawain could see the mouth working, the round hole gulping air. He caught a flash of those deadly teeth and went cold. Somewhere down the corridor, closer to the beast, a voice wailed in terrified despair. They had found the prisoners.

  Beaumains was at his side, sword in hand. “What I wouldn’t give for a nice big spear about now.”

  “Spears just pass through the stinking things,” Gawain replied. “It’s like trying to kill a pudding. The only vital organs are beneath the crest. Strike there.”

  “I suppose you’ve battled one before?”

  Gawain grunted. “Back in the Orkneys. The things seem to like northern climates.”

  “You’ve fought everything,” Beaumains said resentfully, and bolted toward the worm, sword raised.

  Gawain bellowed in protest. A frontal attack was pure folly. The worm reared back as far as the tunnel roof would permit and struck like a snake. Skidding to a halt beneath its head, Beaumains thrust upward, driving toward the underside of the bony crest protecting the tiny brain. The brave gamble should have worked.

  It didn’t. The worm struck, needle-fine teeth piercing between the links of chain mail covering his brother’s chest. Fingers convulsing around the hilt of his sword, Beaumains was lifted into the air as lightly as a leaf. Tamsin gasped in horror at the same moment Gawain charged, cursing his youngest sibling for a fool. Beaumains roared with pain, trying to hack with his sword but unable to do more than flail.

  The worm was the size of a tree trunk, far too large to neatly slice it in two. With grim purpose, Gawain settled for chopping like a woodcutter. It was a risky move, but the thing only had one mouth, and at the moment it was full of his brother. Fury drove the blade deep. The skin split, releasing gelatinous goo that stank like a plague pit. The worm shuddered, flinging its head from side to side—and Beaumains along with it. Gawain hacked again, using the blade like a lever to hitch himself atop the worm. The thing bucked, arching the spiny crest in a gesture of self-defense, but Gawain clung on. He raised the sword and drove it deep into the head, leaning with all his weight until it was buried to the hilt.

  The worm collapsed into a stinking heap. The sucking mouth let go, and Beaumains fell, landing with a bounce. Gawain braced his knees on either side of the sword hilt and pulled it free with a slurping noise that made his flesh creep.

  By the time Gawain had freed himself from the worm, Tamsin was evaluating his brother’s injuries. “I think the chain mail stopped it from killing him, but there are dozens of puncture wounds. I dusted them with heal-all to stop the bleeding, but they have to be cleaned.”

  “We need to get him home,” Gawain said with forced calm. Beaumains was conscious, though clearly in pain. Gawain swore a dark curse beneath his breath. He had little idea where they were, much less how to get his brother to safety.

  Tamsin looked up at him, her dark eyes wide but her mouth set in a determined line. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Can he walk?”

  “Yes.” Beaumains struggled, his boots scraping the floor. Gawain heaved him to his feet and helped him sheathe his sword. The younger knight slumped, one hand on Gawain’s shoulder, panting against the pain. “I’m fine,” he said. “No bones broken. It’s just a flesh wound.”

  Gawain schooled his face, hating what he was asking Beaumains to endure—but the only alternative was to move on. He hitched a shoulder under his brother’s arm and chose a corridor that was absent of the reeking carcass of a giant worm. They forged ahead, Beaumains biting back cries of discomfort until they were no more than a soft hiss.

  The next cells they found still had live prisoners—or close to living. All were fae, their beautiful features barely recognizable beneath matted hair and festering wounds. Gawain’s gut grew colder with each step. He was no stranger to prisons, but this was beyond anything he had ever seen.

  He almost missed the slight stir of movement in the last cell, but something caught his eye. Or maybe, buried deep in a part of himself he denied, he heard a silent cry for help. He stopped and peered into the darkness. All he could see was a pile of rags and a white smudge that might have been a faery’s pale hair, but he still knew who it was. “Angmar.”

  “What’s left of him.” The voice was a dry whisper. “You said you would come, knight. I should have had more faith.”

  * * *

  Tamsin shuddered, her healer’s senses pushed to the limit. Everywhere in this place, sickness and pain howled at her to fix them, pounding at her senses at a bone-deep level. Most were too damaged to help, but Angmar of Corin still lived. She pushed forward, straining to see in the poor light. Angmar lay in a crumpled heap, one arm twisted in a way that said it was broken. His face was a bloody mass of slashes and swollen bruises. Nausea stirred in the back of her throat, but she kept her voice brisk. “He’s bound with those tree roots. Help me get them off.”

  But Gawain was still supporting his brother. “Let me sit down,” said Beaumains, his face slick with sweat. “I need to rest.”

  Reluctantly, Gawain lowered him to the ground. Beaumains gripped his chest, eyes closed and face drained of color. Gawain met Tamsin’s eyes. She didn’t blame him for the worry in his eyes. Unless they got out of there, the prognosis wasn’t great.

  Gawain moved to join her, mouth fixed in a grim line as he took a closer look at Angmar. “This is Mordred’s handiwork. I recognize his flair.”

  He reached for his sword, but then stopped. “The roots are bound too tight to cut them without cutting flesh as well.”

  Tamsin crouched, studying the problem. She was aware of Angmar’s eyes following her every move, but he didn’t speak again. He probably had no strength left. The thick white tendrils were taut around Angmar’s body, the tips beginning to burrow into the skin. She thought of the dead she had seen, sucked dry by the binding trees.

  She pointed to the roots. “I can give these bad boys a good smack.” Keeping her voice light for Angmar’s sake, she looked up at Gawain. “I know how much you like magic. You might want to back away for this.”

  “Just do it,” Gawain said.

  Tamsin nodded and opened her belt pouch. She’d stored the heal-all powder in a gray silk drawstring bag. She sprinkled it lightly over the roots, careful not to let any fall on Angmar. Then she closed her eyes and chanted a scrap of forbidden magic she’d learned from her father’s book. It was one of the few dark spells she knew, and one she kept to herself. It reversed the properties of other spells, turning heal-all into a deadly, corrosive acid.

  The tattoo around her wrist burned like a brand. Dark energy convulsed through her like sudden sickness, making her cry out in disgust—but the effect was instant. A hiss of foul smoke flared up from the roots, their ropy surface bubbling. Tamsin coughed, her eyes stinging from the fumes, then she signaled to Gawain to stand ready. After writhing and squirming, the roots whipped free of Angmar like snakes in retreat, coiling back to the walls with an eerie keening noise. Tamsin and Gawain grabbed Angmar and pulled him to safety, putting him down next to Beaumains.

  A giddy rush of relief made Tamsin’s head swim, but the next instant she was on her knees, checking the fae’s injuries. His right arm was broken in two places, but thankfully the bones had not penetrated the skin. She pulled off her sweater, tying it around him to immobilize the arm. Angmar moaned in pain, bringing a rush of tears to her own eyes, but she kept working. She had no choice. This was her battleground, as surely as Gawain’s was the field of war.

  Gawain paced behind her, tension swirling around him like a second cloak. “This isn’t getting you any closer to finding your books,” he said wryly.

  She checked the pulse in Angmar’s broken arm. It wasn’t strong, but at least circulation wasn’t completely impaired. “I’m where I need to be.”

  “Trapped in a dungeon?” His tone w
as sarcastic, but the pain in his eyes said the anger was turned on himself. “There has to be a doorway here. This is where the occupied cells are, so surely Mordred has an easy way of getting in and out of this end of the prison. I am too blind to see it.”

  Tamsin could hear Gawain’s self-reproach in every word. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve kept us alive. We can’t fight back if we’re dead.”

  He gave her a half smile. “You have the spirit of a warrior, Tamsin Greene.”

  A warm twinge of pleasure surged through her, but she simply shrugged and went to check on Beaumains. He sat silently, slumped forward with his eyes hazed with pain. She touched his cheek, feeling the burn of a fever. The heal-all was working, but it could only do so much. It was plain he needed more help than she could provide without her full array of healer’s potions. “I wish I knew how to find that portal,” she said under her breath.

  Angmar stirred, his eyes flickering open to bloodshot slits. He reached up and caught her wrist, his one good hand still surprisingly strong. His cracked lips moved, but no sound emerged. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve seen it.”

  Chapter 15

  Portals, Tamsin learned, were elegant magic—as simple as opening a door and yet hiding infinite complexities in the workings beneath. Mordred’s doorway was only a few feet from where Tamsin stood, but it wasn’t actually there—not until it was activated. The spell’s energetic substructure was tied to that specific location and could be fired up with little effort by someone who knew how. Tamsin’s job was to take control of the existing framework and redirect the portal to where she wanted it to go. Not that Tamsin, or any modern witch, had a clue how to do so. Thank Merlin’s pointy hat Angmar was there to give her instructions.

  All the fae could manage was a fading whisper, so Tamsin had to listen carefully. The first instruction was easy. If they were going to leave together, they had to be touching. Gawain took hold of his brother’s shoulder in one hand and with the other grasped Tamsin’s sleeve. She held Angmar’s hand in hers, noticing that it was cold and clammy. She knew little about faery physiology, but he seemed to be going into shock. Tamsin clenched her teeth, feeling the weight of responsibility for all their lives. She had to get this right.

  She closed her eyes, stretching out her senses to find the edges of the portal just as Angmar had described. This sort of thing wasn’t Tamsin’s strong suit, but she gave it her best effort. There. A spark of satisfaction rippled through her. Now she had to take firm hold of the door that was there—and yet wasn’t.

  The portal unexpectedly flung open. She experienced the same sense of surprise as when one reaches for a door handle only to be trampled by someone coming from the other side—except this was worse. This was Mordred.

  His shock was the only thing that saved them. Without knowing precisely what she did, she twisted the portal away, redirecting it before the Prince of Faery stepped inside. It spun around Tamsin like a gigantic wheel, gyrating wildly as she grappled for control. She whirled like a pebble lost in a tornado, dragging Gawain and the others with her. Panic surged. She needed to find something solid, some point of reference to cling to, but her mind was reeling. Worse, she could feel Mordred’s power rising to snatch the portal away.

  The first image Tamsin came up with was the library where the books were, but she immediately rejected it. As much as she wanted Merlin’s grimoires, the priority was getting her patients to safety. She tried for a second location and saw her car parked on the roadside blocks away. She lunged for it with utter desperation, forcing her magic through the spinning portal like a hammer blow. Light seared her, passing through her being with painful, burning intensity. The last thing she remembered was opening her mouth to scream.

  The portal spit them out on the hard pavement next to her Camry. Tamsin fell from a space at least a foot above the ground, making her stumble and fall to her hands and knees. The world spun and she closed her eyes, concentrating on the sting in her palms to steady herself. Slowly, she sank forward to her elbows, not sure if she was going to throw up. She’d never used that much magic before. Ever. It felt as if she’d been turned inside out.

  After what seemed like hours—or maybe seconds—later, Gawain helped her to her feet. His features were sharp with worry. “We have to go. Mordred will follow as soon as he regains control of his doorway.”

  Tamsin turned around with a slow shuffle to look at the car. Gawain already had the others propped up in the backseat. Moving slowly to hide her weakness, Tamsin leaned in to get a better look at her patients, but the single streetlight barely penetrated the heavy trees lining the street. She pushed away, unsure if she was fit to drive, but there was no choice. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  She had almost made it to the driver’s door when Gawain grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. There was no ceremony—it was hard, hot, desperate, and over before she quite realized what he’d done. She blinked, staggering back a step. Pins and needles swarmed up her body, every nerve on alert from that brief, bruising touch.

  He smiled, a quick flash of white teeth in the darkness. “That’s the fastest way I could think of to thank you for saving us.”

  Tamsin gulped air, hoping a lungful of the cool night would quench the flush in her cheeks. “You can take your time with the thank-yous later.”

  She finished on a hiccup of a laugh. The words were as inappropriate, untimely and heated as his kiss, but she couldn’t help it and she didn’t care. They’d nearly died. What did it matter if they yearned to celebrate life? His gaze met hers, burning with the same giddy desire. She got in the car before she surrendered to the adrenaline high. They weren’t safe yet.

  But as little as Tamsin expected it, the trip home went with almost eerie precision. Gawain placed Angmar carefully on the bed while Tamsin prepared a nest of pillows and a blanket on the floor for Beaumains. It made the tiny suite crowded, but she needed to keep a constant watch over her patients.

  Tamsin set to work at once, pressing Gawain into service as her second set of hands. He complied willingly, cutting away Angmar’s sweater and washing the wounds before she asked.

  “You’ve done this before,” Tamsin said. The fae had passed out while she’d splinted his arm, but that was probably for the best.

  “I learned many things on the battleground, including what I know of healing.” He looked up from washing the blood from his hands, his eyes as tired as she felt. “What I wonder is where you learned the calm of an experienced warrior.”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve lived a quiet life. I never anticipated dungeons and giant monsters.”

  She hadn’t expected anyone like Gawain, either. He was pushy and suspicious and brooding, but he was filled with a firestorm of emotions—fierce loyalty and towering courage. Beside him, the world seemed pallid and uninteresting. He was proof there were more possibilities than she had dreamed of. She could grow addicted to that heart-pounding thrill.

  She fell silent as she mixed a potion for Beaumains. Some clean, simple injuries could be healed with raw magic, pressing her own life force directly into the wound. Complex injuries like Angmar’s were best handled conservatively, allowing the body to do as much on its own as possible. What she’d prepared for Beaumains was a standard mixture of charmed herbal oils that would heal whatever internal damage the worm’s teeth had done. As soon as he’d downed that, she’d make another to counter whatever germs the beast had been carrying. With luck, the young knight would make a full recovery.

  Tamsin stopped stirring and handed the glass of medicine to Gawain. “Give this to your brother.”

  He hesitated before taking it from her, his fingers warm from the hot water. “Is it charmed?”

  “Yes,” she said, remembering his reluctance to let her use magic on his wound. “Beaumains needs the healing magic.”

  �
��I know,” Gawain replied, but she saw the flicker of uncertainty—almost fear—cross his face.

  The look stung. “After all I’ve done tonight, you’re still cautious.”

  “I am not,” he said.

  But there was a tension around his mouth and eyes that said otherwise. He desired her, admired her and perhaps wanted to trust her, but the feeling hadn’t made it all the way to his heart. Dislike of magic—of everything a witch was—went too deep with Gawain.

  Frustration flipped Tamsin’s mood, and suddenly she was angry. She’d given herself to him, but he refused to risk the most basic bond with her. “If you trust me, then why are you keeping secrets?”

  His expression was confused but also wary. “What secrets do you mean?”

  “Tell me what’s so special about Excalibur.” She wasn’t sure why she cared, except that he’d avoided telling her earlier.

  He lowered his eyes a moment, but then returned her regard. “It’s the only blade that can kill Mordred or his mother. Not even their magic can blunt its power.”

  “The only blade? Then where is it?”

  “Excalibur belongs to King Arthur. If we wish to stop Mordred, we must find Arthur’s tomb.”

  Well, that shed new light on Gawain’s determination to find his king! On top of the obvious bonds of friendship and loyalty was the very practical fact that Arthur had the one weapon they needed to destroy their greatest foes. No wonder he’d wanted her help finding the tombs.

  Then another realization crept up on Tamsin. “So you went into Mordred’s house knowing we couldn’t kill him without the sword?”

  Gawain lifted his head, looking down his nose in that arrogant way he had. “It was a risk. I could have held him off while Beaumains got you and those books to safety.”