by Kris Owyn
“So it’s impenetrable armour?” asked Lancelot.
“Armour is for soldiers,” said Merlin. “The shield is for surgeons.”
“But if a surgeon were to wear this, and pick up a sword—”
“He would not do that.”
“But if he—”
“Alright, fine,” said Guinevere, exasperated. “Last question: what’s this?” She held up a small tube, the thickness of three fingers at most, and three quarters the length of her forearm. It was light, smooth, and an utter mystery.
“That is the miniaturized crossbow,” said Merlin, and everyone gaped at once.
“This is a crossbow?” Guinevere asked. “It’s tiny!”
“It can only fire one shot,” said Merlin. “One shot, no more than ten paces, for optimal efficiency.”
Guinevere nodded in appreciation. She offered it to Lancelot, who shook his head. “No thanks. I’ll stick with a sword, if it’s down to ten paces.”
Merlin jerked to attention, then turned and scurried to the other corner of the room, where he dug around in a cauldron full of scrap wood and metal. Finally, he found what he was looking for: Lancelot’s sword. He turned back, holding it out.
“You kept it for me...” Lancelot said, smiling as he took it into his hands.
“The King said I could use it for parts.”
“He what?”
“You were banished,” said Merlin, like it was only logical. And it largely was.
“Right!” shouted Rufus, and they turned to find him equipped in the surgeon shield armour, arms spread wide... and holding a suppressor in each hand. “When do we paste goblins?”
Lancelot gave Guinevere a sideways glance. “Are we sure we want to give the impenetrable armour to the lunatic?”
She shrugged. “You get him to take it off.” She slid the miniature crossbow into her skirt pocket and took Adwen’s arm in hers. “We’ll take the tunnels to the palace, secure the King, and then Adwen and I will confront Gawain at Council.”
“Do you really think that matters anymore? If he’s got an army on the way—”
“He’s still poor, though. He can’t pay that army without broad support, and if he can’t pay them, they’re either worthless, or a serious liability. He has to convince Council to back him, so we’ve got to make them see why that’s such a terrible idea.”
“But you’re a banished traitor,” said Lancelot.
“And Adwen is a Gwynedd,” countered Guinevere.
Adwen turned to Rufus, dead serious: “You may need to punch me again.”
Rufus backed away in fear.
“Trust me,” said Guinevere, with a smile, “no matter what Council thinks of me, they don’t have the stomach to dive into a civil war for the sake of Gawain’s ambition. I don’t have to prove I’m right, I just have to prove he’s wrong.”
Lancelot seemed incredibly uneasy. “Is this how you formulate all your plans?”
“More or less.”
“That explains a lot.”
She grinned, opened the door and peeked outside. No one was around. She ushered Adwen out, then Lancelot.
“Wait for me!” said Rufus, striding toward them in his bulky and silly armour. “I’m coming with you! For protection!”
“We don’t need your protection,” Lancelot scoffed.
“Don’t be absurd, you’re protecting me,” said Rufus, then added, in a whisper: “There are Saxons everywhere...”
Forty-five
“Did you miss me?” asked Bors, arms wide as his irrepressible smile.
Guinevere leapt at him, holding on tight around his neck and dangling off as he twirled her around and around, laughing all the way. She felt like she was flying, and it filled her with such joy, she cackled and squealed and felt her hair whisk through the air like clouds in a strong wind.
He finished his spinning and tucked her under his arm, but upside-down so her head was floating just above his knees.
“Guinevere?” he said, in mock-shock, “Your head looks all funny!” He was talking to her feet. She squirmed to get free, because... “Guinevere? Can you hear me? Let me check your ears!” And he tickled her feet until her laughter tripped over itself, and she was sputtering glee.
“Bors,” said her father, in that way he did when he was not exactly cross, but not at all happy, either. Bors stopped tickling, but didn’t let Guinevere go. He stood there like a proper gentleman who just happened to have a child held captive at his side.
“You got the letter?” Bors asked, as Guinevere squirmed some more.
“Aye,” said her father. “You think they’re serious?”
“Too serious. He wants you gone by week’s end. Hired sheriffs to hurry you along.”
Her father sighed, turned away; Guinevere’s head was starting to feel heavy, like she’d been awake too late. She started to fight now, trying to get loose, with no mind to what would happen if she did.
“They want to ruin me,” her father said, voice hollow. “I don’t—”
Bors set Guinevere down on her back, stepped over her to be nearer his friend. “Let me take Marie and the children,” he said. “That place isn’t fit for—”
“No, Bors, I can’t, I—”
“Dafydd, listen. You do what you need to do, I’ll see that they’re safe, and when you’re done, we can—”
“No,” said her father, and as Guinevere sat up, she could see his face was tight with anger, red with fury. “They think they can break me, but I will not yield. They think sending me away on some fool’s errand will stop me, but I’ll build my arsenal instead. I’ll take this beating, and I’ll come back stronger. I’ll come back and own them all.”
Guinevere didn’t understand the meaning, but in that moment, she felt an overpowering pride in her father.
And as she stood at the edge of the last door to the palace, up from that tunnel, trying to save a system that had tried to destroy her family again and again and again... she realized how alike they were, her and her father. And she wondered if that would have made him happy, in the end, or horrified.
She couldn’t decide, herself.
“Close to the walls, right behind me,” said Lancelot, sword gripped tightly. “We get to the King, secure his chambers, and work from there. Understood?”
Everyone behind him nodded, except Rufus, who raised a querying hand, which was ignored.
Lancelot opened the door quietly, and they stepped into a dead-silent palace.
The interior hallways had no windows or skylights to illuminate them, so torches were needed; the ones that were lit were nearly extinguished, though, making it a treacherous journey indeed. Guinevere peeked around the corner, back away from the King’s quarters, and saw only darkness. There was a distant pinprick of light, far in the distance, but it might just as well have been a speck of dust in the air. The only sound she heard was a silence like falling snow on a battlefield, after the wounded were gone and the arms dealers surveyed for opportunities to refurbish.
Down the hallway they went, Lancelot stepping lightly, Guinevere and Adwen in perfect sync, silent and careful, and Rufus struggling to stay upright while he shuffled as quietly as he could.
Lancelot held a cautioning hand back, and they all stopped. He crept forward... forward... forward... Guinevere could just see a guard at the corner, back turned to them, unaware of the fate he was about to meet. Adwen turned away, squeezed her eyes shut.
Lancelot reached out his free hand, around to the side of the guard’s head, drew back his sword, and—
“You there! Stop!” shouted the guard, and rushed out of view.
Lancelot cursed under his breath, turned back, motioning to Guinevere to—
“No! Wait!” shouted Rhos, in the distance — and a crossbow fired.
Lancelot leapt into action, swinging h
is sword in an arc and slicing the guard nearly in two. The man toppled sideways, his crossbow cracking on the ground right next to—
Guinevere gasped, racing next to poor old Rhos, fallen on the ground with two bolts in his stomach, sputtering blood. Sir Ector was there, cradling him in his arms, his face alternating between horror and shock and pure, unimaginable grief. Rhos reached a trembling hand out toward Guinevere, touching her cheek, her face, leaving bloodied fingerprints as he tried to... to...
“They wouldn’t listen...” stammered Ector. “They wouldn’t listen when we—”
Rhos choked, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He tried to speak, but it was too wet. Too hard to hear.
Guinevere leaned closer, listened. “I’m here,” she said. “I’m here with you.”
He hit at her face, feebly; but the intent was clear. No!
He tried to speak again, and this time sprayed blood out, cleared the way for him to wheeze: “The King!”
Lancelot looked ahead, in a panic. “What about the King?”
Ector was in a daze, not speaking to anyone, or at any particular pace. “They didn’t listen when... when he... they wanted—”
Lancelot grabbed Ector by the collar and yanked him up, bearing down on him. “What about the King?”
Ector pointed back. “He’s locked in his chambers...” he cried. “He’s locked away...” Lancelot eased up, breathed easier. Locked away meant he was safe. Lancelot smiled at the others, relief spreading like a wildfire. That is, until Ector squeaked out: “With Lord Lothian.”
Lancelot dropped Ector completely. He looked to Guinevere, terror in his eyes, and shook his head as if to say he was sorry, he was sorry for what he was about to do. She reached for him, but it was too late. He tore off down the hallway, down around the corner and out of sight. In less time than it takes a heart to beat, they heard the crack of crossbows firing, and the clang of metal against... everything.
Guinevere looked back to Adwen and Rufus, frantic. “Get them out of sight!” she said, looking for a door — any door — that might provide refuge. Adwen took her place at Rhos’ side, looping her hands under the old man’s arms and lifting with all the strength she had in her tiny body. Ector was still pressed against the wall, talking to himself under his breath, seeing things, horrible things, that would haunt him forever. Things that were still happening right in front of him.
Rufus helped Guinevere to her feet, flipped up the visor his helmet so he could meet her eye. “You’re going after him?” he asked.
She nodded.
“God be with you, Lady Guinevere,” he said solemnly and sanely. “I will—”
“There!” came a shout from behind him, as four guards came around the corner. Their crossbows were up and firing before Guinevere could even scream. One, two, three, four, five bolts crashed into Rufus, and he stumbled forward, shocked, face twisted in incomprehension. He looked down in horror, a halting breath escaped from his lips, and then—
He grinned.
“That stick’s a genius!I’m invincible!”
He slapped his visor shut, cackling madly, and turned to face his attackers, who reacted by firing four more bolts at him. He spread his arms wide, squealing with delight.
“Come on, little duckies, let’s go to the fair!”
He took aim with one of the suppressors and boom! knocked one of the guards clear off his feet. The others looked to their comrade, then to Rufus, and promptly decided to run. Boom! went another, hit in the back of the head and smashed into the wall so hard he left teeth behind. Rufus raised his hands over his head, let out a mighty roar, and ran after them, shrieking all the way.
Guinevere turned back to see Adwen dragging Rhos into a side room with one hand, and guiding Ector with the other. She gave Guinevere a stern nod, and Guinevere returned it.
She ran down the hallway, stopping just short of the corner, then taking a quick peek around it. There were guards there, but not standing. Dead or dying, in various positions around the hall leading to the King’s quarters. No sign of Lancelot. Not even a sound.
She carefully stepped out, feet touching the stone so softly, she almost didn’t trust she existed at all. Around the pools of blood, around the dead bodies, around the strewn crossbows and swords and cracked helmets.
A hand reached for her, and she jerked back, saw one of the guards, still alive, was trying to touch her, to stop her or ask for help or something...
She slammed her heel into his face, and that ended that.
But then: a clang, and a grunt, and the sound of something being sliced! She ran ahead, not thinking what she was doing, and stumbled into the doorway in time to see Lancelot beat the hilt of his sword into Rinwell’s face, and knock him back against the wall. They were both cut and bruised; Rinwell had a limp to him, and his right arm was lame; Lancelot’s shoulder had taken a blow, and his sword was wavering as he tried to hold it aloft, but he was ready for the kill.
She exhaled in relief, and he noticed her there, and smiled, and—
Rinwell stabbed him through the gut.
“No!” screamed Guinevere, as the sword was yanked free. Lancelot, still not aware he’d been had, swung wildly, delivering a vicious slice across Rinwell’s chest; it wasn’t serious, but the shock of it sent Rinwell off-balance, and he crashed to the ground and lost his sword.
Lancelot sunk down on his knees, then onto his back, propped up against the wall. His left hand grasped at the wound, pushing down to stop the bleeding, and failing at every turn. He blinked back pain, tried to sit up again, but couldn’t make his body behave.
Guinevere ran to him, kneeling before him and putting hand to his cheek, to his chest, to his heart. “I’m so sorry...” she cried as he looked past her... looked past her in terror.
“Guinevere...” he wheezed.
Rinwell was back on his feet, sliding his sword along behind him as he staggered forward. His black clothes were glistening red, hair wet with blood, too, and when he grinned — and oh, how he grinned — blood dribbled from his teeth and lips like a demon come to feast on the souls of the wicked.
Guinevere’s back was to him, so intent on saving Lancelot, on comforting him, that she had no idea what was coming. Lancelot raised his sword, feebly, tip pointed at Rinwell like the very act of it could kill him, could save them both.
“Guinevere... you—”
“I’m so sorry,” Guinevere whispered to him. “I never meant for this to happen...”
Lancelot could barely keep the sword aloft; Rinwell was nearly upon them.
“Guinevere, p-please—”
Guinevere rested her forehead to his, nodding as tears fell down her face. “You are a good and noble man,” she said to him—
—and Rinwell raised his sword—
—and Lancelot gasped—
Guinevere took his sword in her hands, and jabbed it backward, under her arm, and into Rinwell’s chest. It came out the other side with ease.
He dropped his sword to the ground, eyes blinking in shock as he slid down her blade a little, and his legs gave out beneath him. He dropped down, then fell onto his side, still impaled. Guinevere stood, twisting the sword around as she turned toward him, and looked down with a curious sort of vindictiveness.
“You’d think I did this for Ewen, but I haven’t,” she said, and pulled the sword free. “He was worth far more than you’ll ever be. This is for killing that hare, the first night.” She dug the blade back into his heart, and watched him die. “I hope you like the wolves in Hell.”
Lancelot watched her in amazement, pressing both hands to his wound and trying to stand... but she held out a finger to him, shook her head. “You’re not saving anyone like that.”
“But—”
“Just stay put and Adwen will find you.”
“But I—”
“
Mind if I hang on to this?” she asked, holding up his sword, and then left the room before he could answer. He sighed, shook his head, and tried not to die.
Forty-six
Arthur was frozen. The knife at his throat left a faint red line where it was brushing the skin, and his head was held back by a menacing hand, tugging and tugging and wrenching at his blond hair like Gawain thought he could pull the man’s head clean off.
Guinevere paused in the doorway, sword tip rested on the ground, and stared across the room at him. The place was a wreck, furniture overturned and thrown everywhere; there had been a fight in here, and in the end, it had ended with Arthur at his desk, a quill in his hand, and a knife to his throat.
“Sign it,” Gawain hissed in his ear. “Do it.”
“Anything he signs is worthless,” Guinevere called out. “Coerced contracts won’t stand up in—”
“In what?” shouted Gawain. “After this, I can rewrite the laws as I see fit! I can undo everything and remake everything the way I want it to be!”
She shook her head. “You’ll have no legitimacy. Who’ll treat you like a King when you got there by regicide and—”
“I will be legitimate!” he screamed. “He needn’t die. He doesn’t need to die.” He leaned closer to Arthur’s ear, whispered like a deranged lover: “You don’t have to die. You can go back to your farm. You pretend this never happened, like this was all a dream that never—”
“Council will stop you,” Guinevere said.
“Council does as I tell them!” he snarled. “You lost, Guinevere. You challenged me and you lost.”
She put out her hands, sword held loose. “So try me again.”
“There’s nothing left for me to win against—”
“No, you idiot. A duel. I challenge you to a duel.”
Arthur’s face shifted from fear for himself to abject terror at what was about to befall Guinevere. Gawain, meanwhile, let a menacing smile expand across him.
“A duel?”
She pointed the sword toward him. It wavered. “Unless you’re afraid you might lose to me. Again.”
