Enchanted Warrior

by Sharon Ashwood

  “Maybe you want to check on Gawain and Mordred?” she suggested, but the king didn’t seem to hear her.

  “Why is it that every time something goes awry, there is a witch standing nearby?” Arthur’s jaw worked, his eyes sparking with temper. “I wake up from my sleep in the wrong place, centuries out of my own time, with LaFaye set to destroy the world and my army vanished, and what do I find but witches at my elbow?”

  “Maybe witches who want to fix the problem,” Tamsin said, earning a warning glare from Hector—but she was getting frustrated. “Maybe you should consider my father did his best to keep Mordred and his mother from smashing you to bits while you slept.”

  The king’s cheeks flushed, turning a mottled shade that didn’t agree with his red-gold hair. Nevertheless, this time he listened. “Is this true, Sir Hector?”

  “Yes. LaFaye’s predecessor granted me immortality to carry out the task.”

  “What happens to you now?” Arthur asked, anxiety creeping into his tone. Was it a good sign that he was asking after her father?

  “I’ve found my king. My mission is over, and my immortality gone,” said Hector, taking Tamsin’s hand in his. “I am relieved to be an ordinary man with a loving family once more.”

  Tamsin caught her breath, shaken by her father’s words. “Isn’t that enough proof of loyalty, even for a king?”

  The sword tip inched in her direction. “You are bold, Mistress Greene. An unbridled tongue is a dangerous attribute when speaking to a crowned head.”

  Another clash of swords outside set Tamsin’s nerves on edge. “Maybe I am bold, sire, but we all went through a lot to find you and bring you back to life. I’m really hoping you’re everything I’ve been told you are, because we’re going to need some five-star leadership to get us out of this jam.”

  Arthur held her gaze, meeting her challenge and matching it with his own. There was wariness in his eyes, but also sharp, intelligent curiosity that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. Tamsin exhaled, feeling the first twinges of relief. She had no doubt waking from an enchantment was hard, but she needed the king to come around, and fast.

  “You have known me from the cradle, Arthur,” said Hector, gruff with emotion. “Do not doubt me.” Tamsin’s heart twisted on behalf of her father. She folded both her hands around his.

  Arthur saw the gesture, and his face softened, but his words did not. “After Merlin and Mordred and LaFaye, I cannot grant magic users the trust I once did. You woke me from the stone sleep, but that does not guarantee your intentions.”

  “What kind of a guarantee do you want, sire?” Tamsin asked, almost pleading. “Mordred tried to kill me. Then he tried to take my soul. I went to his dungeon and I hope never to see another worm as long as I live. Gawain and Beaumains shed buckets of blood for you, as well as Angmar and his friends. Witches, fae or mortal, we’ve all been there for the cause. Gawain is out there fighting for you right now!”

  Arthur’s brows rose, and finally he turned his head toward the racket outside. “Gawain knows his business and his loyalty is above reproach. If he fights, it is in my name.”

  “Then don’t question our commitment, because his cause is ours,” Tamsin said, getting desperate. “If what Gawain says about you is true, you’re better than this.”

  It was a foolhardy thing to say to a king, especially one holding a huge sword, but she was tired and too much a woman of the modern day to coddle a king. He was going to have to earn her respect. Seconds ticked by, the air so tense it might have smashed like glass.

  Then she saw a glint of something that might have been reluctant amusement in the king’s eyes. Excalibur’s point drifted to the floor. Arthur blinked, seeming to fully come back to himself, as if the last shreds of the sleeping spell had finally lifted.

  “I can see you are Sir Hector’s daughter. You have no fear of putting me in my place.” He smiled, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Tamsin suddenly understood why strong men swore to serve this king. “I don’t recommend you do it often, but, once in a very long while, I appreciate correction.”

  Hector released a huge breath. Arthur bent down, clapping him on the shoulder. “Rise, old friend, and accept my apologies.” They got to their feet, Arthur enfolding Hector in a warm embrace.

  “Who did you say Gawain is fighting?” Arthur asked, once he let Hector go. He asked the question casually, as if it were no more than a tennis match. Knowing Gawain, maybe he had daily bouts back in the day.

  “Mordred,” she said, as Arthur took her hand and kissed it. She gave the curtsy she’d learned in ballet class, hoping it would do.

  Arthur’s head snapped up from the kiss. Suddenly, he seemed to grasp the situation. “Mordred? He needs my sword!”

  Before she could speak an unholy shriek split the air.

  “The demon!” Hector exclaimed.

  “Demon?” Arthur spun toward the door, Excalibur leaping to the ready. Tamsin’s breath caught as Arthur’s energy rose bright and hot. He was human, but all at once he was every inch a charismatic warrior king.

  All three of them crowded into the doorway of the Great Hall just in time to see the monster flapping into the sky in a trail of smoke. “What in all the hells?” Hector demanded.

  And then Tamsin saw Mordred drive his black sword into Gawain’s side. She sprinted from the door, ignoring her father’s bellowed order to stay where she was.

  King Arthur was a pace behind.

  * * *

  “Gawain!” Tamsin screamed from somewhere that sounded very far away.

  Gawain swayed toward her voice, but he could not raise himself. A chill was stealing inward, robbing his hands and feet of sensation. He cried out, a groan robbed of breath. No more than a rattle.

  Figures bolted from the Great Hall into the courtyard, gray shapes that surged in and out of focus. If he could only see Tamsin’s face—but a veil had come down, turning everything dark.

  Mordred turned toward the figures. Shocked recognition twisted his face into a snarl. “You!”

  The single word, uttered with such hate, snapped Gawain’s world back into focus. He was a warrior, sworn to protect, and his duty was not done. Almost of its own accord, his hand grabbed the hilt of his fallen sword. It felt heavy as lead, but he stabbed the point into the earth between the flagstones and levered himself up. One foot at a time, he forced himself to stand. Mordred paid him no heed, his face turned toward the hall. If Gawain had been able to lift his sword right then, he could have cut him down—but he simply didn’t have the strength.

  He turned to see what transfixed his treacherous cousin. A glimpse of familiar blue eyes and a blade-sharp nose was enough. Arthur, his king and friend. Fierce joy flamed through Gawain, straightening his spine despite the pain. Tamsin had done her work. Now there was hope and a way forward.

  Tamsin! His eyes found her just yards away, running fleet as a deer toward him. She looked more beautiful than Gawain had ever seen her—her lips parted and eyes wide, all her attention bent his way. She was utterly exposed, a step ahead of Arthur. Gawain’s instincts flared a warning.

  Mordred’s power rose and shaped itself to attack—not at Arthur, not yet. He meant to bat Tamsin out of his path, ridding a troublesome obstacle to get to the king. Powerful though she was, Tamsin wouldn’t easily survive another direct attack from the Prince of Faery.

  In that instant, all Gawain’s confusion faded. The only thing that mattered was the fact that he loved her. Gawain slashed his sword upward, willing all his forgotten power into the strike. The blade sang with the release of magical energy, a high, clear note that pierced deep into Gawain’s bones. Far above in the sky, the demon replied with a harsh scream of hungry rage.

  For a moment all was purity—the autumn sun flashing on steel, the sharp, breathless agony of one final push. Gawain roa
red his defiance as the edge of his blade connected with flesh and bone. Mordred lifted into the air, howling in surprise. The spray of blood sizzled as it fell, dissolving in the heat of Gawain’s rage made manifest.

  Time unwound, suddenly slowed to a dreamlike pace marked by the drum of Gawain’s heart. Mordred fell, eyes wide and staring at the sky. Tamsin ducked away, Arthur pulling her aside to cover her with his body. At first Gawain assumed it was from all that blood, but the sky blackened as the demon swooped again. Gawain fell to his knees, stones hard against the heels of his hands. The jolt shot through him in rainbow shards of pain.

  The demon circled overhead, screaming with the sound of a thousand agonies. Time surged forward again. Tamsin was there, her slender arms around his shoulders. “Gawain?”

  He put a hand to her arm, feeling the life in her. It was sweet and wild, like a berry bursting on his tongue. His magic lunged forward, craving her touch.

  Gawain snatched his hand away. His power was free, running wild. He could feel it throbbing in him like a limb coming awake.

  Tamsin’s eyes widened. “What? You’re hurt. You need to get inside.”

  Her hand immediately went to his wound, but he flinched away, not wanting to soil her with his black, bloody magic. Not wanting to stir that vile power one bit more.

  Her lips pressed together in a stubborn line, but she looked as if she was about to cry. “Don’t fight me now. You need help.”

  She didn’t understand. He’d tried to kill his power. Instead, it had just killed for him—again. He hadn’t even needed Excalibur or Arthur to do the job.

  Gawain cursed his foolishness. He thought he’d escaped what he truly was, beaten the vile taint of his mother’s blood, but no. He’d just confirmed his own worst fears. He retched, and the pain in his side made the world go black.

  Tamsin’s face crumpled as she turned away to speak to someone else. “He’s not cooperating!”

  “Let me go, Tamsin,” he whispered.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped. “You’re in no condition to get stubborn on me.”

  She was right. The strength he’d found to save her was fading fast. Shock was setting in, his limbs starting to tremble. He clenched his fists, trying to hide it. “You kept your part of the bargain. Take the books. You earned them.”

  Shock scattered his thoughts, making it hard to reason. All he knew was that he could not be with her. He loved her too much to burden her with the anguish that consumed him.

  “Is that it?” she cried. “The bargain’s over and now you don’t need me? You got what you want?”

  For a heartbeat, the words barely penetrated. He was too caught by fury and disappointment at his own failure. But then Gawain drew a mighty breath as reality crashed through his heartbreak. He was hurting her. Tears were coursing down her face. That wasn’t what Gawain meant to do at all, but his body and mind were both failing him. “No, Tamsin. Not what I want. It’s all I can give you.”

  “Don’t do this!” she said in a low voice. “I deserve more from you.”

  And he yearned to say more, to take her in his arms, but parts of him were going numb again. One limb, then another. Mordred’s wound was taking pieces of him away.

  “Leave him to me.” Another set of hands, hard ones this time, dragged him to his feet. “I’ve got you, old friend.”

  The demon screamed above them as Gawain brought Arthur’s face in to focus. The monster was signaling another attack. “My lord.” He tried to swallow the blood in his mouth, but his tongue felt thick and dry. “Run.”

  “Agreed.” Arthur hauled him forward as the sky filled with the thunder of the demon’s wings. Tamsin sprinted ahead, seeming to grow more and more distant with every step. It was an illusion bred by Gawain’s mounting fever, but it was also truth. She was slipping away. He wanted to call her back, but he was losing consciousness.

  Gawain’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint. The last thing he remembered was the demon flapping upward, Mordred dangling limply from its claws. The Prince of Faery had become dinner.

  Chapter 27

  “I’m a killer,” Gawain said to Beaumains.

  “You are a knight,” Beaumains replied, sounding kindly if somewhat impatient. “Cousin or not, Mordred had it coming.”

  They were sitting on the top row of benches that formed the spectator stands at Medievaland. Below were the tourney grounds, but no bouts were on and the stands were empty.

  They’d returned just hours ago, after Hector and Tamsin had opened the portal back to Carlyle, landing just outside the theme park. About twenty-four hours had passed since Gawain and Tamsin had set foot in the Forest Sauvage.

  But to Gawain, it seemed like months since Hector had left him at Medievaland and taken his daughter home. Both witches had been exhausted after reviving Arthur, healing Gawain and opening the path back to the mortal realms. The knights had elected to come here instead of crowding into Tamsin’s tiny home. The king was off roaming the grounds, looking more or less like one more costumed player.

  Beaumains leaned back on the bench. “When I got the call from Tamsin to come here and find you, Mordred’s death was all I could think about—but in a good way. Praise the saints and devils, he’s finally gone. Call me bloodthirsty if you like. I don’t care how you did it.”

  “I do,” said Gawain, his stomach like lead. “Not that I regret ending the threat of our cousin, but because of how it was done. Being a soldier, a knight is one thing. I understand honest steel and know when and how to use it.”

  “But magic is different?”

  “I don’t need to remind you that it was my magic that killed our sister. I nearly killed you.”

  Beaumains made a noise of understanding. “That was a tragic accident when you were a boy. Mordred goaded you into it. He was a menace even then.”

  “But I fell into his trap out of pride.” Gawain studied his brother’s ruined face. “I hurt you.”

  “I know.” A sad smile softened the words. “But I also remember you pulling me from the fire. You were the greatest of heroes to me then, this warrior who walked through flames to rescue me. We all stumble, brother, sometimes terribly, but it is how we make amends that matters. And don’t forget you were a child. You didn’t have the wisdom of a man.”

  Gawain bowed his head. “I tried to atone. I thought I had cut the rot of our mother’s magic from my soul, but here it is again.”

  “Does it need to be rot? I have to confess, I’d sooner have inherited mother’s magic than her singing voice, but children don’t get to pick.”

  Bitterness twisted Gawain’s lips. “You don’t think I’ve been tempted by the glitter of untold power?”

  Beaumains sat up and punched Gawain’s arm hard enough to hurt. “You’re worried that you’ll turn bad. I’m not. No sooner would you come up with a wicked plot than you’d start apologizing for it. You think too much to enjoy the life of an evil witch.”

  “I’m not a witch,” Gawain said automatically, but the words held no conviction. He had no more choice in the matter than in the color of his eyes or the curl of his hair. There was nothing he could do. Nothing.

  Gawain leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He had fought for years to deny the truth, but that had availed him not at all. After all this time, he’d finally surrendered to his nature. Shame came like a blow to the gut.

  But it wasn’t surrender, not in the sense of giving up. Frustration clawed at Gawain, pulling apart all his assumptions. He’d used the talents he had to save the woman he loved, and he refused to believe that was wrong.

  Beaumains had a point. With magic came responsibility. Merlin had forgotten that, but Gawain would not. He’d seen the consequences of misused power, from the temptations of Lady Bertilak to the tragedy of Angmar’s people. Gawain was not perfect, but
he knew deep in his soul that there were lines no one should ever cross.

  He let out his breath. All at once the cold afternoon crowded in, clean and sharp and filled with the distant clamor of fairgoers. There was a purity to accepting what he was, much like the song of his magic flashing down his sword. That had been a perfect moment, intent and action in utter harmony. All he’d cared about was keeping Tamsin safe.

  That act of love had forced Gawain to destroy his hard-won belief in who he was. He’d always been the boy who had transformed himself from killer to champion with the force of self-denial. He’d masked his magic, crushed it, but that had been a lie. His love had made him face the truth—and then he’d pushed her away.

  “What are you thinking?” Beaumains asked uneasily. “There are no suicidal heroics in the works, right?”

  “No. Nothing that simple, I’m afraid.” Gawain straightened as Arthur mounted the steps of the stands, a perplexed look on his face. Gawain knew the expression. It was the look of a medieval warrior seeing Medievaland for the first time. Forcing his pain deep out of sight, he gave a sympathetic smile as Arthur reached their bench.

  “This place is very,” the king began, turning back for another look, “um, cheerful.”

  “It grows on you,” Beaumains offered. “You should try the corn dogs.”

  But Arthur turned back, serious now. “We have a future to plan. I understand from Hector that Angmar of Corin has been taken into hiding by his allies.”

  Beaumains nodded. “They came and got him yesterday.”

  Arthur gripped Excalibur’s hilt. “The rebel fae have offered to provide for our needs until we gather our brothers. We must act quickly. Mordred may be gone, but Queen LaFaye will demand vengeance for his death.”

  Gawain had barely finished one mission, and Arthur was already looking ahead. But that forward push was part of what made the king a great general. No one caught him napping.

  “What about the witches?” Beaumains asked. “Should we not be winning them to our side? They could be powerful friends in this war.”